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Social  Sciences  &  Humanities  Library 

University  of  California,  San  Diego 
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APR  17  1996 


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THE 


DIADEM 


FOK  MDCCCXLVI. 


A   PRESENT  FOR   ALL    SEASONS. 


WITH 


TEN     ENGEAVINGS, 


AFTER  PICTURES  BY 


INMAN,  LEUTZE,  ETC. 


PHILADELPHIA. 

CAREY  &  HART,  126  CHESNUT  STREE  T. 

1846. 


Entered  according  to  the  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1845,  by 

CAREY    AND    HART, 

in  the  Office  of  the  Clerk  of  the  District  Court  for  the  Eastern  District  of  Pennsylvania. 


T.  K.  t  P   O.  COLLINS,  PRINTERS. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

PREFACE         5 

LOSS  AND  GAIN R-  W.  Ememon          -        -        -        -  9 

THE  EARTH  TO  THE  SUN Anne  C.  Lynch         -        ...  10 

THE  DREAM F.  H.  Hedge               ....  12 

THE  BEAN      -        -        -        - W. 13 

PASSAGES,  ETC. L.  0. -        -  31 

A  FABLE R.  W.  Emerson         .        .        -        -  3S 

THE  LAST  POET N.  L.  F. 39 

THE  SINGER F.  H.  Hedge 41 

THE  ROSE B.  T. 43 

THOUGHTS L.  0. 71 

LINES Anne  C.  Lynch         .        ...  SO 

GENIUS F. SI 

SPIRIT-GREETING F.  H.  Hedge 90 

COLISEUM C.  T.  Brooks 91 

LINES 93 

SONG N.  L.  F. 94 

THE  FORE-RUNNERS R.  VV.  Emerson         ....  95 


PREFACE, 


We  thought  to  perform  an  office  of  unmingled  pleasure  in  saying  a  few 
words  introductory  to  this,  the  second  series  of  the  Diadem.  But,  as  the 
last  sheets  were  passing  through  the  press,  our  friend  Mr.  Carey,  to  whom 
the  present  publication  owes  its  existence,  and  of  whose  taste  and  love  of 
art  it  is  one  of  the  humblest  of  many  memorials,  was  breathing  his  last, 
and  those  eyes  are  closed  in  death  which  we  most  wished  should  see  and 
approve  the  work.*  We  bring  it  before  the  world  with  hearts  smitten 
with  an  acute  sense  of  loss.  We  are  loth  to  mar  with  sad  thoughts  the 
festivities  of  the  season  to  which  this  publication  is  dedicated,  but  there 
are  very  few,  except  the  very  young,  around  whom  even  Christmas  and 
the  New  Year  do  not  gather  many  mournful  memories!  If,  therefore, 
amidst  the  joyous  interchange  of  good  wishes  which  belongs  to  the  season 
and  in  which  we  send  forth  this  volume  to  participate,  we  pause  to  pay  a 
brief  tribute  to  the  memory  of  our  friend,  we  shall  not  be  considered  as 
altogether  out  of  harmony  with  the  occasion.  What  cup  of  sweetness  is 
there  that  is  not  dashed  with  bitterness?  What  path  of  man  on  which  the 
shadow  of  death  does  not  lie?  What  garlands  can  be  woven  without  the 
cypress? 

For  the  last  four  years  of  his  life  Mr.  Carey  was  subjected  to  the  severe 
discipline  of  infirmities,  oftentimes  acutely  painful,  which  confined  him 
wholly  to  the  house  and  rendered  him  scarcely  able  to  move  without 
assistance.  His  sufferings  had  the  manifest  effect  to  unfold  the  best 
qualities  of  his  nature,  and  these  became  the  predominant  traits  of  his 

•  Mr.  Carey  departed  this  life  June  16,  1845,  in  the  40lh  year  of  his  age. 
B  5 


PREFACE. 

character.  He  bore  the  wearisome  burthen  with  uniform  sweetness  of 
temper.  Thrown  upon  his  own  resources,  he  was  a  diUgent  reader,  and 
through  the  extensive  acquaintance  which  he  acquired  with  general  Utera- 
ture,  his  abiUty  as  a  pubhsher,  so  far  from  being  impaired,  was  increased 
by  his  confinement.  To  that  forced  retirement  we  are  indebted  for  some 
of  the  most  popular  publications  that  have  issued  from  the  American  press, 
such  as  "The  Modern  Essayists"  and  Professor  Longfellow's  "Poets  and 
Poetry  of  Europe."  At  the  same  time  an  early  fondness  for  the  Fine  Arts 
grew  in  him  day  by  day,  until  the  walls  of  his  spacious  rooms  were  hung 
all  over  with  fine  specimens  of  the  genius  and  skill  of  some  of  the  most 
eminent  of  living  British  and  American  painters.  These  beautiful  works 
were  his  perpetual  refreshment,  and  it  was  interesting  to  see  how  entirely 
he  had  passed,  long  before  he  died,  into  a  still,  imperishable  world  of  truth 
and  beauty,  in  which  he  held  constant  communion  with  noble  thoughts, 
meditating  liberal  designs.  His  love  of  art,  unalloyed  by  the  slightest 
affectation  or  pretence,  was  evinced  in  his  princely  dealing  with  artists. 
His  patronage  was  in  nowise  ofiicial;  his  name  did  not  appear  at  the  head 
of  public  institutions;  but  artists  were  proud  and  happy  to  know  that  he 
was  the  possessor  of  their  works,  and  they  mourn  him  now  as  a  man  as 
well  as  a  munificent  patron. 

As  the  embellishments  of  this  work  were  left  wholly  to  his  taste,  and  as 
they  were  incomplete  at  his  death,  we  have  thought  that  the  slight  portrait 
of  him  taken  in  part  from  memory  (Plate  No.  X)  by  recalling  his  features 
in  ever  so  faint  a  degree  to  his  many  and  warmly  attached  friends,  would 
not  be  wholly  out  of  place  in  a  Souvenir. 

It  remains  only  to  say  a  word  upon  a  slight  change  which  we  have 
made  in  the  present  volume.  In  preparing  publications  of  this  kind,  it  is 
customary  to  make  use  of  a  considerable  quantity  of  prose  and  poetrjs 
ordered  expressly  for  the  purpose,  and  designed  to  illustrate  the  plates, 
which  constitute  the  chief  attraction  of  these  works.  We  omit  to  observe 
this  custom  in  the  present  instance;  for,  although  the  plates  in  last  year's 

6 


PREFACE. 


Diadem  were  illustrated  with  no  ordinary  felicity  by  Miss  Lynch,  yet 
sound  philosophy  and  an  abundant  experience  bear  witness  that  it  is  a 
false  method  to  treat  the  inspiration,  without  which  poetry  is  so  designated 
only  by  the  merest  courtesy,  as  if  it  were  kept  subject  to  order  and  retail. 
We  therefore  prefer  to  follow  the  steps  of  our  German  brethren,  among 
whom  we  believe  this  species  of  literature  first  appeared,  and  leave  the 
plates  to  tell  their  own  stories  and  write  their  own  poems,  except  as  such 
brief  remarks  may  be  thought  necessary  as  may  here  find  place.  The 
Frontispiece  is  after  a  fancy  head  by  H.  Inman,  and  we  anticipate  the 
satisfaction  of  that  gentleman  in  the  full  justice  done  to  the  original  by 
Mr.  Sartain.  The  Title-page  is  from  a  drawing  furnished  for  this  volume 
by  that  most  promising  artist,  Mr.  Leutze,  now  abroad,  and  it  evidently 
represents  the  good  Angel  of  the  Christmas  and  New  Year  season  bringing 
gifts,  riches  and  honour.  The  depths  of  those  earnest  eyes  reveal  the 
genius  of  the  artist.  "The  Homeless"  is  from  an  original  picture  by  P. 
F.  Poole,  an  English  artist.  "The  Mask"  is  also  engraved  from  an  origi- 
nal picture  by  H.  Inman.  "  The  Momentous  Question,"  representing  a 
scene  from  Crabbe's  Tales,  is  from  a  fine  English  engraving  of  a  painting 
by  Miss  Setchal,  who  holds  a  high  rank  among  British  artists.  The 
original  picture  of  "The  Heart's  Misgivings"  is  in  water  colour,  and 
commanded  great  admiration  when  first  exhibited.  "The  Falconer's 
Son"  and  "The  Fisherman's  Daughter"  will  be  recognized  as  taken 
from  Landseer's  fine  picture  of  Bolton  Abbey.  For  the  rest,  the  embel- 
lishments of  this  volume  must  speak  for  themselves. 

W.  H.  F. 


THE    DIADEM. 


LOSS    AND    GAIN. 

n  T    n .    w .    E  M  E  n  s  o  .N . 

Virtue  runs  before  the  muse 

And  defies  her  skill, 
She  is  rapt,  and  doth  refuse 

To  wait  a  painter's  will. 

Star-adoring,  occupied, 

Virtue  cannot  bend  her, 
Just  to  please  a  poet's  pride. 

To  parade  her  splendor. 

The  bard  must  be  with  good  intent 

No  more  his,  but  hers, 
Must  throw  away  his  pen  and  paint, 

Kneel  with  her  worshippers. 

Then,  perchance,  a  sunny  ray 

From  the  heaven  of  fire 
His  lost  tools  may  overpay 

And  better  his  desire. 


THE    EARTH    TO    THE    SUN. 


BT     ASXE     C.     LTXCH. 


Oh  Sun  !  oh  glorious  S'un ! 
The  spell  of  winter  binds  me  strong  and  dread 
In  the  dark  sleep,  the  coldness  of  the  dead, 

And  song  and  beauty  from  my  haunts  are  gone. 

The  skies  above  me  lower, 
The  frozen  tempest  beats  upon  my  breast, 
That  wearily  by  its  snow-shroud  is  prest. 

And  the  wild  winds  rave  o'er  me  in  mad  power. 

At  thine  averted  gaze, 
Benumbed  and  desolate  I  droop  and  die ; 
Life  of  my  life  !  lord  of  my  destiny  ! 

Shine  on  me  with  thy  life-imparting  rays. 

Look  from  thy  radiant  throne. 
And  o'er  this  waste,  drear  and  unlovely  now, 
Young  Summer's  gorgeous  loveliness  shall  glow, 

And  beauty  clasp  me  in  her  magic  zone. 

Fair  landscapes  shall  arise. 
O'er  which  a  sky  of  tenderest  blue  shall  bend, 
When  forest,  hill  and  vale,  and  stream  shall  blend 

Into  a  poet's  dream  of  paradise. 

And  in  thy  living  beams 
The  flowers  shall  wake,  and  every  dewy  cup 
Shall  send  the  homage  of  its  perfume  up. 

And  give  thy  brightness  back  in  rosy  gleams. 
10 


THE    EARTH   TO   THE  SUN. 

A  full  deep  symphony, 
The  voice  of  streams,  the  air's  melodious  sighs. 
Songs  from  all  living  things  shall  mingling  rise 

In  one  eternal  hymn  of  love  to  thee. 


In  vain,  oh  Earth,  in  vain ; — 
What  heeds  the  Sun,  if  light  or  shadow  rest 
Upon  the  bosom  in  his  smile  so  blest. 

Or  if  thou  perish  in  thine  icy  chain. 

If  from  the  shining  host. 
Like  the  lost  Pleiad,  thou  wert  stricken  down. 
He  would  not  miss  thee  from  his  starry  crown, 

He  would  not  mark  one  ray  of  brightness  lost. 

Then  for  the  song  and  bloom, 
The  untold  wealth  of  beauty  buried  deep 
Within  thy  frozen  heart  in  death-like  sleep, 

Oh !    mourn  thou  not  within  thy  conscious  tomb. 


THE    DREAM. 

FROM    TUE    GERMAN    OF    L.    UHLAXD. 
BT     F.     H.     IIF.  DGE. 

I  DREAMED  not  long  ago 

I  stood  on  a  rocky  steep, — 
On  a  cliff  by  the  ocean's  strand; — 
And  I  looked  far  over  the  land, 

And  down  on  the  glorious  deep. 

Beneath  me,  in  gallant  trim, 

A  stately  bark  lay  moored, 
The  surge  its  dark  side  laving, — 
Gaily  its  flag  was  waving, 

And  a  pilot  stood  on  board. 

And  behold  there  came  from  the  mountains 

A  merry,  merry  band  ; 
Bedecked  with  garlands  bright, 
They  seemed  like  spirits  of  light 

As  they  tripped  along  the  strand. 

"  Say,  pilot,  wilt  thou  take  us?" 
"  What  nymphs  be  ye  so  gay  ?"      ^ 

"  Earth's  Joys  and  Pleasures  are  we. 

From  earth  we  feign  would  flee, 
0  !  bear  us  from  earth  away !" 

Then  the  pilot,  he  bade  them  enter; 

And  they  entered  one  by  one. 
"  But  tell  me,  are  here  all  ? 
Are  none  left  in  bower  or  hall .'" 

And  they  answered,  "  There  are  none." 

Away  !   then  ; — the  bark  unmoored 

Leaped  gaily  from  anchor's  thrall ; 
And  away  she  sped  with  a  glorious  motion. 
And  I  saw  them  vanish  over  the  Ocean, — 
Earth's  Joys  and  Pleasures  all. 
12 


?a»nifdb/'55rfili  ,V:-hnl 


THE    BEAN, 


FROM     THE     HERMAN     OF     H.    7.  9CH0KKE. 


"  I  WAS  in  despair" — so  began  the  young  banker  Walter  at  an  evening  party, — 
for  nine  weeks  I  went  everywhere  in  Vienna,  into  all  parties,  under  all  pretences, 
and  at  every  police  otfice  I  described  the  lady  Voii.  Tarnau,  her  aunt  and  the  maid 
servant ;  no  one  could  tell  whither  they  had  gone.  Good  advice,  indeed,  was  not 
wanting,  for  that  is  always  cheap.  I  was  directed  to  all  the  points  of  the  compass  to 
find  my  goddess. 

She  was  no  longer  in  Vienna.  But  although  I  was  told  so  at  the  hotel  where  she 
had  lived,  and  although  I  occupied  the  same  room  which  had  once  been  hers,  I  still 
sought  her.  I  was  at  all  churches  and  masses,  at  all  masquerades  and  balls,  at  all 
plays  and  places  of  amusement.  Enough — love's  labour  was  lost.  My  angel  had 
vanished. 

Inconsolable  I  left  the  capital,  and  in  the  worst  winter  weather  returned  home. 

But  to  make  the  whole  singularity  of  my  fate  clear  to  you,  I  must  tell  you  how 
I  became  acquainted  with  the  lady.  You  will  find  much  in  my  story  that  is  wonderful, 
but  in  love  everything  is  romance. 


Three  years  before  I  had  visited  Vienna  on  business.  Our  house  was  threatened 
with  a  great  loss.  I  succeeded  in  averting  the  misfortune  ;  and  then  availed  myself 
of  the  opportunity  to  participate  in  the  amusements  of  Vienna.  "  Who  knows," 
thought  I,  "  that  1  shall  ever  again  come  to  Vienna." 

My  acquaintances  carried  me  into  all  companies ;  I  was  introduced  into  many 
family  circles;  the  mothers  received  me  very  kindly,  and  their  fair  daughters  not  less 
so.  I  was  known  to  be  unmarried,  and  the  name  of  our  house  was  not  unknown  to 
the  fathers.  I  passed  everywhere  as  the  rich  banker,  and  was  addressed  by  the  title 
of  Mr.  Von  Walter. 

On  account  of  the  peculiarities  of  my  good  old   father,  I  had  never  thought  of 
marrying.     Of  course,  entirely  free,  I  fluttered  from  one  fair  one  to  another.     I  loved 
'them  all,  but  no  one  in  particular. 

"  The  lady  Von  Tarnau  is  every  moment  expected,"  lisped  an  elderly  lady  near 
me  at  an  evening  party  to  a  young  neighbour. 

"  She  is  a  dear  good  creature,"  replied  llie  young  lady  addressed;  "  she  would 
be  thought  perfectly  beautiful,  were  it  not  for  that  horrible  defect." 
D  13 


THE    DIADEM. 

"  All !"  said  the  elderly  lady,  "  you  mean  the  mole  she  has  on  her  breast,  just 
below  her  neck  ?  they  say  that  it  is  in  the  Ibrm  of  a  mouse  !" 

"  A  mouse  !  Pardon,  my  dear  lady,  if  it  were  nothing  worse  than  that,  it  would 
not  be  necessary  for  her  to  wrap  herself  up  so  like  a  nun.  No,  it  is  just  like  a  camel, 
with  two  humps,  four  legs  and  a  long  neck." 

"  Don't  you  believe  that !"  said  another  who  joined  in  the  conversation.  "I 
know  all  about  it.  It  is  a  mole  of  a  very  peculiar  kind,  of  a  monstrous  size,  and 
covers  her  whole  neck.     It  is  a  shocking  disfigurement." 

"  Indeed,  that  is  frightful!"  exclaimed  the  old  lady. 

"Yes,  and  if  I  were  so  disfigured,"  said  one  of  the  young  ladies,  modestly 
casting  her  eyes  down  upon  the  fine  gauze  which  lay  upon  her  fair  neck  like  a  cloud 
•on  the  snow,  "I  do  believe  it  would  kill  me."  ^ 

Others  now  joined  in  the  conversation  ;  every  one  confirmed  the  fact,  and  all 
pitied  the  young  lady  Von  Tarnau  on  account  of  this  great  misfortune. 

The  door  opened.     The  young  lady  and  her  aunt  entered. 

Had  she  not  already  awakened  an  interest  in  me  through  the  preceding  conver- 
sation, she  would  have  riveted  my  attention  by  her  uncommon  beauty  and  grace.  An 
ideal,  such  as  we  sometimes  admire  in  the  pictures  of  Angelica  Kaufmann,  a — no, 
smile  not ;  I  was  not  then  in  love  ;  and  now  I  am  married,  so  I  utter  nothing  but 
truth. 

Enough,  the  lovely  Tarnau  won  the  eyes  and  hearts  of  all  the  gentlemen  ;  they  all 
approached  her  with  an  expression  of  interest,  brightened  by  the  tenderest  sympathy. 
But  she  was  impenetrably  veiled  close  up  to  her  chin.  This  peculiarity  of  her  dress, 
of  course,  incessantly  reminded  one  of  the  mouse,  and  another  of  the  camel.  "  Ah!" 
thought  every  one,  "  why  was  fate  so  cruel  as  to  deform  the  sweetest  creature  under 
the  sun  in  this  dreadful  manner!" — and,  I  cannot  deny  it,  I  thought  so  too. 

I  am  not  by  nature  curious,  but  on  that  evening  this  sin  plagued  me  as  never 
before.  My  eyes  continually  wandered  over  the  folds  of  the  thick  veil ;  I  repeated 
my  voyage  of  discovery  every  quarter  of  an  hour.  I  always  found  opportunity  to 
stand  next  to  the  fair  unfortunate.     But  in  vain. 

There  was  dancing.  Several  couples  had  already  taken  their  places.  The  beau- 
tiful Tarnau  remained  unasked, — how  powerful  is  imagination!  I  asked  her  to 
dance;  she  gave  me  her  hand.     I  continued  her  partner  the  rest  of  the  evening. 

She  hovered  lightly  around  me  like  one  of  Titania's  elves,  in  all  her  motions, 
smiles,  looks,  words,  full  of  inexpressible  sweetness — "Ah!  shame  upon  the  master- 
piece of  Nature,  who,  in  cruel  wantonness,  had  ruined  her  most  beautiful  work." 

The  company  separated  late.  The  beautiful  unfortunate  had  enraptured  me. 
She  -was  so  innocent  and  saintly,  and  unconstrained. — Ah,  happily  she  knew  not  what 
every  one  else  knew !  so  much  the  better  for  her.  I  was  not  romantic  enough  to 
fancy  that  I  had  fallen  in  love  at  first  sight,  although  it  would  not  have  been  strange  if 
I  had  done  so.  This  much  I  readily  confess,  that  as  yet  no  woman  had  ever  captivated 
me  to  such  a  degree.  A  deep  sympathy  touched  my  heart ;  and  certainly  such  an 
angel  deserved  at  least  a  little  pity! 

14 


THE    BEAN. 

The  next  day  I  had  already  forgotten — forgotten  ?  no,  I  will  not  say  that,  for 
one  cannot  well  help  thinking  of  so  strange  a  freak  of  nature,  by  which  all  the  magic 
of  beauty  was  mixed  with  the  hatefullest  of  hateful  things.  As  I  returned  from  a 
walk  and  ascended  the  steps  of  the  hotel,  I  suddenly  met  the  lady  and  her  aunt 
descending. 

Naturally  enough  we  stopped  and  exchanged  friendly  inquiries.  Surprise  was 
expressed  on  both  sides  that  we  should  have  been  residing  under  the  same  roof 
without  knowing  it.  I  showed  my  pleasure  at  the  discovery,  and  begged  permission 
at  suitable  hours  to  see  the  ladies  in  their  apartments.  At  the  word,  '  see,'  I  really 
looked, — for  my  curiosity  again  arose — towards  the  region  of  the  horrid  mole,  but  a 
thick  shawl,  carefully  pinned  under  her  chin,  covered  the  young  lady's  breast  and 
shoulders,  and,  therefore,  I  preferred  to  look  at  the  angelic,  beautiful  face  above. 

They  went  down  the  steps  and  I  went  hastily  into  my  room,  in  order  to  have 
another  sight  of  that  delicate  form  from  my  window.  They  got  into  a  carriage  and 
drove  off.  "Ah,"  sighed  I,  "  what  a  pity  that  such  an  angel  should  be  so  terribly 
disfigured!" 

I  did  not  forget  the  permission  they  had  given  me  to  come  and  see  them,  and 
from  time  to  time  I  made  the  ladies  a  visit.  They  were,  like  myself,  strangers  in 
Vienna,  and  had  been  introduced  to  my  friend,  at  whose  house  a  few  evenings  before 
I  had  become  acquainted  with  them,  by  an  Augsburg  firm  from  whom  they  received 
their  funds. 

I  attended  my  fellow-boarders  to  the  promenade,  to  the  theatre,  and  to  all  places 
where  there  was  anything  to  be  seen.  The  beautiful  Josephine, — for  so  her  aunt 
called  her, — manifested  the  fine  qualities  of  her  mind  and  heart  the  more  I  became 
acquainted  with  her.  But  it  did  not  escape  me,  that,  the  longer  our  acquaintance 
lasted,  the  more  carefully  did  she  conceal  her  unfortunate  disfigured  breast.  Josephine 
was  the  most  perfect  woman  that  I  had  ever  seen  in  my  life ;  but  nothing  under  the 
sun  is  quite  perfect. 

As  we  saw  each  other  daily,  we  became  every  day  more  intimate.  At  last  it 
seemed  as  if  I  wholly  belonged  to  them.  The  aunt  treated  me  with  that  familiarity 
which  grows  out  of  travelling  in  company.  In  Josephine's  maimer  of  addressing  me 
I  fancied  that  I  perceived  some  tender  marks  of  friendship. 

When  I  was  occasionally  prevented  from  joining  the  ladies  by  business,  I  was 
compelled  to  listen  to  some  slight  reproaches,  and  when  Jose{)hine,  sitting  motionless 
and  silent,  wouki  fix  her  eyes  upon  me  as  if  she  sought  to  look  into  my  very  soul,  and 
ask.  Who  art  thou  ? — Ah,  it  is  imjiossible  to  say  how  I  then  felt. 

But  at  last  no  business  ever  hindered  mc,  and  I  came  punctually  with  the  clock. 

My  heaven,  however,  did  not  last  long.  I  received  a  letter  from  home.  My 
good  father  had  had  an  apoplectic  stroke  ;  he  longed  to  see  me.  It  was  necessary 
that  I  should  use  the  utmost  haste  if  I  would  again  embrace  him  in  this  world. 

The  letter  arrived  in  the  morning.  In  half  an  hour  all  was  packed,  and  the  post- 
coach  stood  at  the  door  of  the  hotel.     I  was  almost  out  of  my  senses  with  anxiety. 

15 


THE    DIADEM. 

My  servant  announced  that  all  was  ready.  I  went  down  to  the  street  like  one  in  a 
dream.  The  thought  of  taking  leave  of  my  fellow-boarders  never  occurred  to  me; 
and  I  was  just  about  to  jump  into  the  coach,  when  a  voice  from  above  called  to  me, 
"  Where  are  you  going  ?" 

It  was  the  sweet  voice  of  Josephine.  I  looked  up  ;  she  stood  at  the  window  and 
repeated  the  question.  My  recollection  returned.  I  flew  back  into  the  hotel  and  up 
stairs  to  obey  the  dictates,  if  not  of  friendship,  at  least  of  politeness. 

I  knocked  at  the  door,  and  it  sprang  open.  Josephine  still  in  her  morning-dress 
came  towards  me,  but  starting  back  with  an  expression  of  the  liveliest  alarm — 

"  Gracious  heaven!"  cried  she,  "  what  is  the  matter  with  you  .''  What  has  hap- 
pened?   How  pale  and  ghastly  you  look!" 

As  she  said  this  with  great  emotion,  and  stretched  out  her  hand  to  seize  mine, 
the  Cashmere  shawl,  which  she  had  thrown  loosely  over  her,  fell  open  in  front.  And — 
may  the  shade  of  my  honored  father  pardon  me — but  curiosity  is  a  most  unfortunate 
sin — I  forgot  journey,  apoplexy,  and  extra-post,  and  had  eyes  only  for  the  revealed 
secret  of  Josephine's  breast. 

Imagine  my  astonishment ! — I  saw  a  breast  as  white  and  clear  as  ivory,  and  two 
inches  below  the  dimple  of  her  alabaster  throat  the  unfortunate  mole.  But  it  was  no 
mouse,  no  camel,  only  a  dark  brown  spot  on  the  skin  about  the  size  and  the  shape  of 
a  small  bean.  I  could  have  sworn  that  a  pretty  brown  bean  was  lying  on  the  blinding 
snow. 

Josephine  blushing,  drew  the  shawl  together  again, — but  I  could  not  speak. 
Whether  it  were  the  apoplexy  or  the  bean— enough,  I  stood  confounded  like  a  statue. 

"For  heaven's  sake!"  cried  her  aunt,  "tell  us  what  has  happened  to  you.' 
Have  you  met  with  any  misfortune  ?" 

"  My  father  has  had  an  apoplectic  stroke — he  is  at  the  point  of  death — I  must 
leave  you." 

I  could  say  no  more.  I  kissed  the  ladies' hands  and  took  leave.  For  a  moment, 
but  only  for  a  moment,  Josephine  held  my  hand  convulsively  grasped  in  hers.  Her 
countenance  was  pale,  and  her  eyes  wet ;  perhaps  it  was  not  so,  for  I  hardly  saw 
anything.     Everything  danced  before  my  eyes. 

Once  in  the  carriage,  I  thought  of  nothing  but  my  dear  father's  death-bed.  I 
travelled  day  and  night  in  a  perfect  fever.  The  days  thus  spent  were  the  most  painful 
of  my  life.  I  had  only  a  few  happy  moments  amidst  the  confused  dreams  that  hovered 
before  me.  Only  now  and  then  did  Morpheus  or  the  fever  show  me  the  bean  in  the 
snow. 

When  at  last  the  coach  stopped  before  the  paternal  mansion,  some  of  my  relatives 
habited  in  mourning  came  out  to  meet  me.  I  was  too  late.  My  father  had  left  the 
world,  and  his  ashes  already  rested  in  the  tomb. 

I  will  not  say  how  violent  was  my  grief.  With  all  his  humors,  I  loved  my  father 
with  the  most  filial  tenderness.  Grief  and  the  excitement  of  the  journey  prostrated 
my  health.     I  was  seized  with  a  violent  fever,  which  was  really  a  benefit  to  me,  as  I 

16 


THE    BEAN. 

became  wholly  unconscious.  For  three  months  I  did  not  leave  my  bed.  When  I 
recovered,  and  the  world  and  the  past  came  back  to  me,  emerging,  as  it  were,  out  of 
a  cloud,  I  was  as  cold  and  indifferent  as  if  nothing  had  happened,  as  if  I  had  lost  all 
feeling. 

The  affairs  of  our  house  had  been  thrown  into  some  confusion  by  the  death  of  my 
father  and  the  long  continuance  of  my  illness.  Happily  for  me,  labour  and  occupa- 
tion were  afforded  me. 

Within  a  year  and  a  day,  however,  everything  was  put  to  rights,  and  I  was  the 
master  of  my  house.  And  when  the  black  crape  disappeared  from  my  arm  and  hat, 
aunts  and  cousins  thronged  around  me,  full  of  marriage  plans.  Such  manifestations  of 
cousinly  and  auntly  regard  are  as  necessary  and  unavoidable  as  birth  and  death.  I 
let  the  matchmakers  have  their  way,  and  troubled  myself  very  little  about  their  advice 
or  their  plans.  No  cousin,  no  aunt,  Hymen's  ever  ready  servants,  can  ever  effect  so 
much  as  simply  a  single  pretty  maiden,  and  at  the  right  hour.  But  in  our  whole  city 
and  neighbourhood  there  was  no  pretty  maiden — no,  that  is  a  calumny,  it  was  the 
magic  hour  that  had  not  come. 

Nevertheless,  this  continual  questioning  and  answering  brought  me  to  reflection ; 
I  really  perceived  that  I  was  alone,  and  that  I  wanted  something.  My  house,  since 
my  father's  death,  had  become  a  wilderness.  And  yet  among  the  ten  thousand  young 
ladies  whom  I  had  ever  seen,  I  knew  no  one  with  whom  I  should  like  to  share  my 
life  and  my  wilderness. 

My  residence  in  Vienna  and  the  beautiful  Tarnau  suddenly  occurred  to  me,  I 
know  not  how,  for  it  was  a  long  forgotten  story.  Fortunately,  I  was  alone  in  my 
room,  for  I  believe  that  I  grew  fire-red  at  the  remembrance  ;  at  least  I  suddenly  sprung 
up  from  the  sofa,  stretched  my  arms  far  out  into  the  air  as  if  to  embrace  the  heavenly 
image,  and  sighed — no,  I  called  aloud  with  mingled  rapture  and  pain:  "Josephine' 
Josephine!" 

That  was,  I  believe,  the  magic  hour To  increase  my  disquiet,  the  very  next 

night  the  god  of  dreams  showed  me  the  bean  in  the  snow.  Josephine  was  beautiful 
enough  in  herself,  but  my  enamoured  imagination  illuminated  her  with  unearthly 
beauty.  Let  no  one  laugh — I  had  gone  to  bed  sober,  but  I  arose  the  next  morning 
intoxicated  with  love. 

Now,  indeed,  was  my  house  desert  and  waste,  as  the  old  Chaos  of  Creation 
might  have  been.  I  sought  Josephine  everywhere  ;  I  saw  her  everywhere.  I  thought 
of  her  as  my  wife,  now  at  the  pleasant  window,  with  her  little  work-basket ;  now 
at  the  piano  and  myself  behind  her  listening;  and  now  at  my  side  on  the  sofa  at 
a  little  round  breakfast  table.  In  the  tumult  of  my  imagination,  all  her  indescribable 
grace,  her  smile,  her  look,  and  her  nightingale-tones  became  ever  more  bewitching. 
I  was  no  longer  master  of  myself ;  I  was  lost  in  a  conflict  of  emotions  of  all  sorts ;  at 
one  time  I  was  upon  the  point  of  shouting  aloud  from  very  ecstacy,  so  bright  were  my 
dreams,  and  then,  again,  I  was  ready  to  weep.  When  I  thought  how  Josephine, 
perhaps,  might  reject  me,  sometimes,  I  believe,  I  really  did  shout,  and  weep,  for  I 
E  17 


THE    DIADEM. 

was  like  a  wild  dreamer,  who  is  only  at  home  with  his  Ideal,  and  is  deaf  and  blind 
to  the  outward  world. 

This  condition  was  intolerable.  I  arranged  my  business,  ordered  post  horses 
and  flew  to  Vienna. 

It  is  true,  some  sober  considerations  now  and  then  occurred  to  me  on  the  way. 
How  much  might  she  have  changed  in  sixteen  months!  thought  I.  Perhaps  she  loves 
another.  Perhaps  she  is  married.  She  may  not  be  at  her  own  disposal.  She  is  too 
young,  and  has  parents  and  relatives,  and  they  have  views  which  neither  of  us  know 
of,  or  she  may  be  of  high  rank. 

I  then  thought  over  our  former  friendly  intimacy,  and  consoled  myself  with  the 
remembrance  of  her  pale  countenance,  her  suffused  eyes,  and  her  ardent,  involuntary 
pressure  of  my  hand  when  we  parted.  In  all  these  things  I  found  proof  of  Josephine's 
interest  in  me,  proofs  even  of  love,  although  these  circumstances  might  have  been 
interpreted  in  a  different  way.  But  that  I  might  not  utterly  despair,  I  was  forced  to 
conclude  on  the  whole  that  the  lady  Von  Tarnau  was  not  indifferent  to  me.  Better 
not  to  live,  than  to  live  without  her  ;  better  deluded  and  happy  than  knowing  the  truth 
and  miserable  ! 

Filled  with  these  thoughts  I  again  approached  Vienna.  But  when  I  saw  the 
steeples  and  roofs  in  the  distance,  it  occurred  to  me  that,  although  I  had  considered 
all  chances,  1  had  not  taken  into  account  that  a  year  ago  Josephine  was  a  stranger 
like  myself  in  Vienna,  and  could  hardly  be  in  Vienna  still. 


How  I  fared  in  Vienna,  I  have  already  told  you.  The  lady  Von  Tarnau  had 
vanished.  The  hotel  had  passed  into  new  hands  ;  and  so  there  was  no  one  to  give 
me  any  information.  My  acquaintances  knew  as  little  of  her  and  her  whereabouts  as 
I.  They  wrote  at  my  request  to  Augsburg,  whence  she  or  her  aunt  had  brought  letters  of 
credit  and  introduction.  But  the  Augsburg  correspondent  had  in  the  mean  time  died, 
and  his  heirs  could  give  intelligence  of  no  lady  Von  Tarnau. 

Enough,  I  was  in  despair.  I  was  most  heartily  vexed  with  myself.  For  was  it 
not  my  own  fault,  that  during  my  first  stay  in  Vienna,  I  had  been  so  unpardonably 
negligent  as  not  to  inform  myself  of  her  family  and  residence  ?  Indeed,  then  I  never 
once  thought  that  I  was  going  to  fall  in  love  with  her  a  year  and  a  quarter  afterwards. 

In  the  midst  of  my  trouble  what  enlivened  me  the  most,  although  it  increased 
my  passion,  was — her  room.  That  room  I  now  occupied.  I  found  the  same  furniture 
still  there,  the  very  chair  on  which  she  sat,  and  the  table  at  which  she  wrote.  The 
whole  past  lived  so  vividly  before  my  eyes  and  around  me,  that  I  absolutely  sprung 
up  from  my  seat  all  in  a  flutter,  upon  the  slightest  noise  at  the  door,  thinking  that  it 
was  she  herself  and  her  aunt  coming  in. 

In  the  room  itself  nothing  remained  unsearched,  fori  still  hoped  to  discover  some 
trace  of  her.  Twenty  times  did  I  examine  the  walls  from  the  floor  to  the  ceiling  to 
find  among  the  signatures  of  travellers  there,  her  name,  or  something  that  would  lead 
to  the  discovery  of  her  home.     All  in  vain  ! 

18 


THE    BEAN. 

Odd— but  trifling  enough,  the  very  first  day  I  went  into  the  room,  I  found  in  the 
draw  of  the  writing-table — let  no  one  laugh, — a  beautiful,  shining,  brown  Bean. 
You  know  what  a  sacred  symbol  this  vegetable  had  become  to  me,  and  now  I  had 
found  it  in  Josephine's  room  !  I  took  up  the  bean  with  the  greatest  care.  And  as  I 
now  gave  up  the  fond  hope  of  ever  finding  the  loveliest  being  upon  earth,  I  took  the 
bean  to  a  jeweller,  and  had  it  set  in  gold,  in  order  to  wear  it  continually  by  a  silken 
guard  round  my  neck,  as  a  memento  of  the  loveliest  of  her  sex,  and  of  my  sad 
romance. 

I  then  left  Vienna.  I  was  unhappy  and  comfortless.  I  swore  never  to  marry. 
Ah,  one  swears  many  things  in  his  haste ! 


I  returned  to  my  native  city,  like  a  widower.  All  young  ladies  appeared  to  me 
intolerable,  stale,  common  ;  I  buried  myself  in  business  ;  I  diverted  my  mind  by 
engaging  in  large  speculations;  saw  no  company;  made  no  visits;  Josephine's  image 
hovered  continually  around  me  like  a  guardian  angel,  and  the  bean  upon  my  breast 
was  as  precious  a  possession  as  if  it  had  been  bestowed  by  her  own  hand.  Let  no 
one  grudge  the  unhappy  his  dreams  !  I  even  at  last  imagined  that  the  beautiful  Tarnau 
had  herself  placed  the  bean  in  the  drawer  of  the  writing-table.  A  happy  fancy  is  in 
the  end  as  good  as  any  philosophy,  by  which  one  would  fain  console  himself. 

My  outward  man,  indeed,  was  not  indicative  of  this  wonderful  happiness;  for  all 
thought  me  melancholy,  sick,  and  like  to  die.  Aunts  and  cousins  beset  me  with 
entreaties,  invitations,  and  plans  of  pleasure;  even  physicians  were  sent  to  my  house. 
I  would  have  nothing  to  do  with  them. 

To  free  myself  from  my  tormentors,  and  to  show  that  I  was  still  like  otlier  men, 
I  went  now  and  then  to  some  of  the  evening  parties  at  the  houses  of  my  friends. 

One  evening  I  accepted  an  invitation  to  Councillor  Hildebrande's.  Now  you 
shall  hear  the  catastrophe  of  my  story. 


I  went  to  the  councillor's.  The  company  were  all  known  to  me,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  one  person,  who  was  introduced  to  me  as  a  lieutenant  colonel  in  the  Russian 
service,  and  who  had  lately  come  into  possession  of  an  estate  about  a  league  and  a 
half  from  the  city.  To  tliis,  however,  I  did  not  pay  much  attention  at  the  moment. 
I  bowed  silently,  laid  aside  my  hat  and  took  my  seat.  Conversation  was  lively; 
so  much  the  better  for  me ;  I  had  no  especial  desire  to  talk. 

The  Russian  officer,  a  large  stout  man,  of  an  agreeable  and  dignified  figure, 
already  past  sixty,  still  full  of  animation,  chiefly  engaged  my  attention.  He  had  a 
ribbon  at  his  button-hole,  and  a  couple  of  scars  on  his  forehead  and  ciieek.  His  voice 
was  loud  and  authoritative  ;  it  was  easy  to  see  in  him  a  commanding  officer.  The 
conversation  turned  now  upon  Persia,  and  now  upon  Moldau,  where  the  lieutenant 
colonel  had  made  campaigns.  The  company  listened  to  iiini  with  pleasure,  and  he 
told  his  stories  well. 

After  supper  the  conversation  grew  still  more  lively.     The  old  officer  told  of  a 

19 


THE    DIADEM. 

battle,  in  which,  wounded  in  the  breast,  he  had  fallen  from  his  horse  and  been  taken 
prisoner  by  the  Turks.  When  in  the  excitement  of  his  narrative  he  tore  open  his  vest 
to  show  the  wound,  we  remarked  that  he  wore  next  to  his  heart,  a  little  golden  locket 
fastened  by  a  silken  guard.  He  drew  out  the  locket  and  exclaimed  :  "  The  Janissa- 
ries robbed  me  of  everything,  but  this  jewel,  the  most  precious  of  my  possessions,  I 
saved !" 

Of  course,  all  imagined  that  it  must  be  a  diamond  of  uncommon  size,  or  a  pearl 
of  immense  value,  one  of  his  Eastern  spoils. 

"  Oh,  not  at  all,"  cried  he,  "it  is  only  a  beanP'' 

"  A  bemiT'  exclaimed  every  one. 

At  these  words  I  became,  I  believe,  red  as  fire  or  pale  as  death,  or  both  by  turns, 
for  I  could  not  command  myself  for  surprise.  "  How  comes  the  man  by  a  bean 
which  he  wears  set  in  gold  like  a  sacred  relic,  just  like  me?"  thought  I.  Let  any- 
one imagine  himself  in  my  situation,  and  he  will  know  how  I  felt.  I  longed  to  learn 
why  he  wore  the  bean.  But  I  was  confounded  ;  I  could  not  bring  out  a  syllable.  I 
tossed  off  a  glass  of  punch  to  get  courage  to  ask  the  question.  But  I  was  saved  the 
trouble  by  all  present. 

"  I  will  willingly  tell  you,"  said  the  old  officer,  and  filled  his  pipe  ;  "but  I  am 
afraid  the  story  is  not  sufficiently  interesting.     Fill  your  pipes,  gentlemen." 

Every  one  obeyed,  even  I,  although  I  was  no  smoker.  But  I  took  the  cold  pipe 
between  my  lips,  from  pure  fear  that  the  colonel  should  refuse  to  proceed,  if  he  saw 
me  without  his  favorite  instrument. 


Gentlemen,  I  was  a  cadet  in  my  fifteenth  year,  and  a  Lieutenant  in  my  twentieth, 
said  the  old  gentleman. — But  in  his  five  and  twentieth  one  is  something  more  than  a 
mere  lieutenant.     He  is  a  god,  nota  bene!  if  he  is  in  love.     And  that  was  L 

Our  colonel  had  a  daughter,  the  most  beautiful  and  bewitching  maiden  in  the  whole 
kingdom,  and  I  had,  along  with  two  sound  eyes,  an  extra  sound  heart.  This  explains 
everything.  The  young  countess  of  Obendorf — but  I  love  to  call  her  to  myself  by  her 
baptismal  name  of  Sophia,  for,  nota  bene !  I  was  no  count — Sophia  then  was  sixteen 
years  old,  and  I,  as  I  said  before,  five  and  twenty  ;  you  can  easily  imagine  what 
mischief  arose  therefrom.  It  was  quite  unavoidable,  I  assure  you.  You  all  see  that 
plainly  enough ;  but  the  colonel  who  had  the  eye  of  a  hawk  in  regimental  matters, 
did  not  see  it  at  all;  but  my  love,  nota  bene!  was  no  regimental  matter:  for  the  rest, 
I  stood  very  high  with  him ;  he  was  as  fond  of  me  as  a  son  ;  he  had  known  my 
parents,  who  were  no  longer  living;  he  stood  to  me  as  a  father,  and  I  would  have 
given  anything  in  the  world  to  have  been  his  son.  But  that  was  not  to  be  thought 
of.  He  was  a  colonel,  I  a  lieutenant ;  he  a  count,  I  not ;  he  rich  as  Croesus,  I  poor  as  a 
church-mouse.     Now  you  know  all.     The  distance  between  us  was  too  great. 

The  countess  Sophia  did  not  make  such  nice  distinctions  about  titles  and  wealth 
as  the  old  colonel,  and  yet  in  many  things  she  was  more  prudent  than  he. 

I  remarked,   indeed,  that  she  treated  me  in  a  more  friendly  manner  than  any 

20 


THE    BEAN. 

Other  of  the  officers,  that  she  liked  best  to  talk  with  me  ;  liked  best  to  dance  with 
me  ;  liked  best  to  walk  with  me  in  the  garden  in  summer,  and  to  go  sleighing 
with  me  in  the  winter, — however,  I  could  not  conclude  from  all  this  whether  she 
loved  me.  But  that  I  loved,  adored,  idolized  her  that  I  knew,  and  that  I  knew  only 
too  well. 

A  thousand  times  was  I  ready  to  declare  myself,  and  throw  myself  at  her  feet — 
but,  good  heavens !  I  have  since  gone  with  my  battalion  to  storm  a  battery  with  a 
lighter  heart  than  I  was  able  then  to  advance  a  single  step  towards  Sophia.  It  will 
not  do,  said  I. 

But  I  will  not  detain  you  longer  with  the  history  of  my  love  and  my  sufferings, 
but  proceed  directly  to  the  main  point. 

One  evening  I  had  to  carry  a  report  to  the  colonel.  He  was  not  at  home  ;  that, 
indeed,  was  no  great  misfortune,  for  the  countess  Sophia  was  sitting  all  alone,  and  she 
permitted  me  to  await  her  father's  return  in  her  company. 

How  curious  it  was  !  If  we  met  at  large  parties,  it  seemed  as  if  there  would  be 
no  end  to  our  talk  ;  but  when  we  were  alone,  tete-a-tete,  as  they  say,  we  knew  not 
what  to  say,  nay,  we  knew  well  enough,  but,  nota  bene!  we  could  not  say  it! 
Whether  you  ever  experienced  such  fatalities,  gentlemen,  in  your  young  days,  I  know 
not. 

On  the  table  before  the  young  countess  lay  a  draught  board  upon  which  a  certain 
game  was  played  with  a  number  of  white  and  brown  beans. 

After  a  long  pause  in  our  conversation — but,  nota  bene  !  such  pauses  were  any- 
thing but  tedious — the  countess  invited  me  to  play.  She  gave  me  the  brown  beans 
and  kept  the  white.  They  belonged  to  her,  of  course,  on  account  of  their  color, — 
the  emblem  of  Innocence.  We  played.  The  countess  won.  That  led  to  quarreling, 
and  I  liked  to  .quarrel  with  her,  for  then  I  could  say  many  things  to  her  that  I  could 
never  muster  courage  to  say  in  cold  blood. 

And  now  it  was  just  as  if  we  were  in  a  large  party  ;  that  is,  we  talked  fast  enough 
about  the  stakes.  The  countess  Sophia  had  spirit  and  wit;  she  laughed,  and  teased 
me,  and  drove  me  so  with  her  sallies  into  a  corner,  that  in  my  despair  I  knew  not 
what  to  answer.  In  my  vexation  I  took  up  one  of  my  brown  beans,  and  to  punish 
the  beautiful  jester,  who  laughed  at  me  so  roguishly,  threw  it  at  her.  The  bean 
made  a  parabola  aild  threatened  the  delicate  nose  of  my  opponent,  but  as  she  drew 
back  her  pretty  head  to  avoid  the  light  bomb — Ah,  my  shot  fell  through  the  folds  of 
iier  neckerchief  down  into  her  bosom.     Luckily  it  was  no  arrow  I 

I  was  terribly  frightened,  and  was  all  in  a  glow  in  my  agony.  Sophia  blushed  and 
cast  her  eyes  modestly  down.  Jest,  play,  and  quarrel  were  now  all  at  an  end.  I 
could  not  speak,  and  she  was  silent.  I  feared  that  I  had  incurred  her  anger  through 
my  awkwardness.  I  looked  timidly  toward  her,  she  raised  her  eyes  and  cast  upon 
me  rather  a  dark  look — that  I  could  not  bear.  I  arose,  and  bent  my  knee  before  the 
adored  one,  pressed  her  hand  to  my  lips  and  implored  pardon.  She  answered  not 
a  syllable,  yet  she  did  not  draw  away  her  hand  from  me. 
F  21 


THE    DIADEM. 

"  0  countess,  0  dear  Sophia!  don't  be  vexed  with  me.  I  should  die,"  cried  I, 
"  if  you  were  angry  with  me.  For  only  for  you,  only  through  you  do  I  live.  With- 
out you  life  is  worthless.     You  are  my  life,  my  heaven,  my  all." 

Enough  ;  one  word  followed  another.  How  much  did  I  say  to  her  with  tears  in  my 
eyes,  and  with  tears  in  her  eyes  how  much  did  she  listen  to!  I  begged  for  an  answer 
and  yet  gave  her  no  time  for  an  answer,  and,  nota  bene !  the  colonel  stood  three  steps 
from  us  in  the  room  without  either  of  us  having  seen  or  heard  him  enter.  I  believe  he 
must  have  glided  in  like  a  ghost !   God  save  him  !  he  is  now  in  Paradise. 

His  awful  voice  startled  us  like  a  clap  of  thunder,  as  he  poured  out  upon  us  a 
whole  string  of  regimental  oaths  old  and  new.  I  sprang  up  before  him.  Sophia, 
without  losing  her  presence  of  mind,  did  the  same.  We  were  on  the  point  of  excus- 
ing ourselves,  if  there  really  was  anything  to  be  excused.  But  he  would  not  allow  us 
to  utter  a  word. 

"Silence!"  shouted  he,  as  if,  instead  of  two  poor  sinners,  he  had  to  deal  with  a 
couple  of  regiments  of  cavalry.  "  You,  Sophia,  depart  to-morrow — and  you,  Mr. 
Lieutenant,  will  jilease  ask  your  dismissal  and  quit  the  province,  or  you  are  a  dead 
man." 

With  this  he  turned  upon  his  heel  and  left  the  room.  I  must  confess,  the 
prudence  of  the  man  in  the  midst  of  his  fury  was  worthy  of  admiration  ;  for  I  hold  it 
was  very  prudent  in  him  that  he  left  us  alone;  we  had  still  much  to  say  to  each  other. 

The  countess  Sophia  stood  there  in  the  middle  of  the  room  with  her  pretty  head 
sunk  upon  her  breast,  and  her  hands  negligently  folded  before  her,  like  a  statue. 

"  Oh  Sophia!"  said  I,  and  rushed  towards  her  and  folding  her  in  my  arms,  pressed 
her  fervently  to  my  heart :  "  Sophia,  now  I  lose  you  forever !" 

"No,"  she  replied  firmly,  "not  forever,  so  long  as  I  breathe  shall  your  image 
live  in  my  heart."  And  this  was  said  in  a  tone — 0,  with  a  voice  that  thrilled  every 
nerve  in  me. 

"  Am  I  really  dear  to  you,  Sophia.'"  I  whispered,  and  pressed  my  burning  lips  to 
her  rosy  mouth.  She  did  not  say  yes,  she  did  not  say  no,  but  she  returned  my  kiss, 
and  the  earth  went  from  under  my  feet ;  my  soul  was  no  longer  in  the  body  ;  I  touched 
the  stars  ;  I  knew  the  happiness  of  the  seraphim. 

She  wept ;  her  sobs  recalled  me  to  myself. 

"  0  Sophia,"  cried  I,  sinking  at  her  feet  and  embracing  her  knees :  "  I  swear  it 
to  you,  I  am  yours  alone  as  long  as  I  breathe  and  wherever  my  fate  shall  bear  me!" 

A  deathlike  silence  ensued — Our  souls  were  silently  swearing  eternal  fidelity. 
Suddenly  something  fell  upon  the  floor.  It  was  the  unfortunate  bean,  to  which  we 
owed  all  our  wretchedness.  I  took  it  up,  arose,  and  held  it  out  to  Sophia,  saying, 
"  This  is  the  work  of  Providence  !  I  will  keep  it  as  a  remembrancer  of  this  evening." 

"  Yes,  it  is  a  providence  !"  whispered  she,  and  turned  and  went  into  the  next 
room. 

The  following  morning,  or  rather  in  the  night,  she  travelled  off.  The  colonel 
treated  me  on  parade  with  the  most  scornful  coldness.     I  applied  for  my  dismissal, 

22 


THE    BEAN. 

received  it  and  went  off.  Whither  I  cared  not.  Friends  gave  me  letters  to  Peters- 
burg and  supplied  me  with  travelling  money. 

"It  is  a  providence!"  thought  I,  and  started  for  the  rough  north.  Sophia  was 
lost  to  me  forever,  nothing  remained  to  me  but  the  painful  remembrance  and  the  bean. 
This  I  had  set  in  gold,  and  I  have  now  faithfully  worn  it  next  my  heart  for  two  and 
forty  years. 

My  letters  soon  obtained  for  me  a  lieutenant's  commission.  I  was  somewhat 
indifferent  to  life,  and  so  was  somewhat  brave.  I  fought  in  Asia  and  Europe,  got 
booty,  honor,  orders,  and  whatever  else  a  soldier  desires.  After  some  twenty 
years,  I  got  to  be  a  lieutenant  colonel.  I  had  grown  old  ;  my  early  history  was,  indeed, 
forgotten,  but,  nota  bene!  the  bean  was  still  dear  to  me. 

When  I  was  taken  prisoner  by  the  Janissaries  at  the  battle  of  Hinburn,  in  the 
year  '88, — we  had  a  hot  day  of  it,  the  prince  of  Nassau  made  his  cause  good  by  the 
way, — they  stripped  me  of  everything;  but  the  sacred  bean  they  did  not  find  ;  it  was 
completely  soaked  in  my  blood.  I  expected  nothing  but  death.  For  two  days  I  was 
dragged  about  by  the  infidels ;  but,  incessantly  pursued  by  our  cavalry,  they  at 
last  left  me  lying  half  dead.  So  our  people  found  me.  They  took  pity  on  me  and 
carried  me  to  the  hospital,  and,  to  complete  my  restoration,  I  was  sent  at  the  head  of  a 
transport  back  to  Moscow. 

The  repose  pleased  me.  I  had  to  live,  and  therefore,  life  became  dear  to  me. 
After  twenty  years  service  and  seven  honorable  wounds,  I  could  reasonably  look  for 
an  honorable  dismission.  I  received  it  with  a  pension;  that  was  all  very  well,  but, 
nota  bene!  I  was  not  long  contented.  Moscow  is  an  agreeable  city,  but  for  one  of 
us,  who  are  no  merchants,  rather  dull.  Petersburg  is  a  beautiful  place,  but  all  its 
splendor  was  not  enough  to  make  me  forget  the  little  town,  where  I  had  been  in 
garrison  twenty  years  before  with  Colonel  von  Obendorf,  and,  nota  bene  !  with  Sophia. 

There  was  nothing  to  delay  me.  '  Do  you  not  wish  once  more  to  see  the  little 
town,  and  perhaps,  also,  the  beloved  of  thy  youth,  who  is  now  either  a  grandmamma, 
or  is — dead.'  Blessed  heaven  !  how  much  she  must  have  changed  in  the  mean 
time,  thought  I. 

I  received  my  passports  and  departed.  I  looked  about  me  in  all  the  cities  through 
which  I  passed,  for  I  had  nothing  to  hasten  me,  and  so  I  approached  our  former 
garrison  town. 

How  my  heart  beat  when  I  saw  the  black  pointed  church  spire  with  its  golden 
ball,  rise  behind  the  numerous  gardens  and  orchards,  but,  nota  bene !  it  was  not  the 
spire ;  but  I  thought  of  Sophia  and  that  her  grave  might  not  be  far  from  the  spire. 

No  one  in  the  town  knew  me.  It  is  very  true  a  quarter  of  a  century  is  a  long 
time.  The  regiment  to  which  I  formerly  belonged  was  no  longer  (here,  and  the 
station  was  occupied  by  dragoons,  colonel  von  Obendorf  had  died  many  years  bctbre, 
and  his  daughter  had  removed  to  her  estates  in  Moravia,  that  is,  not  far  from  Brunn. 
Whether  she  were  still  living  no  one  knew. 

'  Will  you  go  there,  tool'  thought  I :  '  and  if  she  be  lying  in  her  grave,  then  go 

23 


THE   DIADEM. 

to  her  grave  and  take  from  it  some  earth  and  have  it  enclosed  in  gold  and  wear  it 
instead  of  the  bean  !' 

In  Brunn  I  learnt  with  joyful  surprise  that  she  was  still  alive,  and  resided  five 
leagues  from  the  city  on  a  beautiful  estate,  and  was  still  called  the  Countess  von 
Obendorf. 

Instantly  I  was  up  and  away.  They  showed  me  a  beautiful  country  seat  sur- 
rounded by  gardens  laid  out  with  great  taste.  "  There  she  lives!" — I  trembled  again 
as  I  had  formerly  done  when  a  lieutenant,  and  as  I  never  had  done  before  the  Turks. 

I  got  out  of  the  carriage.  Already  I  saw  the  lovely  one,  and  how  full  of  hea- 
venly grace  and  emotion  she  would  receive  me.  '  Ah !  woman's  heart !  Does  she 
love  me  still  ?'  thought  I,  and  proceeded  with  an  uncertain  step  through  the  garden.    , 

Before  the  house  under  an  arbour  of  blooming  red  acacias,  sat  two  elderly 
ladies,  and  two  young  ladies.     They  were  reading.     But  Sophia  I  saw  not. 

I  apologized  for  the  interruption  I  had  occasioned ;  for  they  all  seemed  surprised 
at  my  sudden  appearance. 

"  Whom  do  you  wish  to  see  ?"  asked  one  of  the  elderly  ladies. 

"  May  I  have  the  honor  to  pay  my  respects  to  the  Countess  Sophia  of  Obendorf?" 
said  I. 

"  I  am  she,"  replied  to  my  amazement  the  lady  who  appeared  to  be  somewhat 
near  forty.     I  felt  as  if  I  should  have  an  attack  of  vertigo. 

"Permit  me  to  sit  down,  I  am  not  well!"  sighed  I ;  and  seated  myself  without 
waiting  for  an  answer.  What  a  change !  Whither  had  flown  the  most  blooming 
of  all  beauties?  The  illusion  passed  away;  I  bethought  myself  of  a  quarter  of  a  cen- 
tury.    It  was  Sophia,  yes,  it  was  she!  but  the  faded  Sophia. 

"  To  whom  have  I  the  honor  to  speak?"  asked  she.  Alas!  she  knew  me  not 
better  than  I  knew  her. 

I  wished  to  avoid  a  scene  before  the  two  ladies,  and  therefore  begged  for  a  short 
tete-a-tete. — The  countess  led  me  into  the  house,  and  then  into  a  large  room  on  the 
left.  The  first  thing  that  met  my  eyes  was  a  full  length  portrait  of  her  father — I  could 
find  no  words  to  speak,  my  heart  was  so  full.  I  gazed  at  the  picture  till  my  eyes 
grew  dim  with  tears. — "Yes,  old  man,"  I  stammered  in  a  low  voice  :  "  look  now  at 
thy  Sophia  ! — Oh  thou  hast  not  treated  us  well!" 

The  countess  stood  near  me,  embarrassed,  and  apparently  alarmed  at  my  declara- 
tion. I  wished  to  release  her  from  her  painful  situation,  and  yet  could  not  speak.  A 
feeling  of  sadness  had  completely  overpowered  me. 

"  You  are  not  well,  sir?"  said  the  countess,  and  she  looked  uneasily  towards 
the  door. 

"  Oh  no !"  sighed  I,  "  do  you  not  know  me  ?" 

She  now  fixed  her  eyes  more  earnestly  upon  me,  and  then  gently  shook  her  head. 
I  snatched  the  bean  from  my  bosom,  kneeled  before  her,  and  said,  "  Ah,  Sophia,  do 
you  still  know  this  bean,  which  separated  us  four  and  twenty  years  ago  ?  I  have  kept 
it  faithfully— Sophia,  you  said  then,  '  There  is  a  providence  ;'  yes,  there  is  one." 

24 


THE    BEAN. 

"  0  Heaven!"  stammered  she  with  a  faint  voice,  and  turning  from  me,  went 
towards  a  sofa,  upon  which  she  threw  herself  and  sought  to  conceal  her  pale  face 
-with  her  hands,  but  she  fainted.     She  had  recognized  me.     She  loved  me  still. 

I  called  for  help  to  the  ladies  who  were  alarmed  at  the  sight  of  their  friend  in  a 
fainting  fit  and  a  strange  officer  kneeling  before  her  in  tears.     But  before  water  and 

O  ID  O 

smelling  bottles  could  be  brought,  the  countess  came  to  herself.  She  rubbed  her 
eyes  as  if  in  a  dream.  Then  a  flood  of  tears  broke  forth ;  she  sobbed  as  if  she  were 
inconsolable,  threw  her  arms  round  my  neck  and  called  me  by  name. 

Enough,  gentlemen,  that  was  a  moment!  Angels  might  have  wept  over  us. — 
I  had  no  thought  of  taking  my  leave.  The  countess  received  me  as  a  guest.  0,  how 
much  had  we  to  say  to  each  other,  how  faithfully  she  had  loved  me ! — What  the  old 
colonel  once  prev'ented,  neither  he  nor  his  family  could  prevent  any  longer.  Sophia 
became  my  wife;  somewhat  late  it  is  true,  but  yet  not  too  late,  our  souls  still  loved 
with  youthful  fervor. 

My  history  or  rather  the  history  of  this  bean  is  now  at  an  end,  nota  bene  !  not  quite. 
For  the  child  that  my  Sophia  bore  me  brought  into  the  world  with  her  a  mark  upon 
her  breast  just  like  a  bean.  Strange  freak  of  nature!  But  the  maiden  is  only  so  much 
the  dearer  to  me. 


Here  the  lieutenant  colonel  ended  ;  but  I  heard  no  more.  Everything  swam 
around  me  ;  in  my  ears  there  was  a  buzzing  and  humming  like  the  sea.  Only  in  the 
midst  of  it  all,  the  name  of  Josephine  sounded. 

The  colonel's  carriage  was  announced.  "  You  must  not  think  of  going,"  said 
the  councillor,  "I  cannot  let  you  go  in  the  night." 

"  Oh,"  said  the  colonel,  "  it  is  a  lovely  night  and  bright  moonlight." 

My  carriage  was  announced  also.  I  arose,  went  to  the  colonel,  took  him  by  the 
hand  and  said,  "Your  name  is  Von  Tarnau." 

He  bowed  in  the  affirmative. 

"  I  '^eg  you  to  spend  this  night  with  me,"  said  I ;  "  much  depends  upon  it.  You 
must  not  go.     I  have  something  important  to  say  to  you." 

I  said  this  so  earnestly,  and  I  might  add  so  unconsciously,  and  at  the  same  time 
trembled  so  violently  that  the  old  man  did  not  know  what  to  make  of  me. — Still  he 
remained  firm  and  insisted  upon  going.     His  obstinacy  almost  brought  me  to  despair. 

"  Come,"  said  I,  and  seizing  him  by  the  hand,  drew  him  aside  and  showed  him 
my  bean:  "see — it  is  not  a  freak  of  nature  merely — but  of  fate, — I  also  wear  a 
bean." 

The  old  gentleman  opened  his  eyes  wide,  looked  at  my  jewel  attentively,  and  at 
last  said:  "  With  such  a  talisman  one  might  conjure  up  a  spirit  from  the  grave.  I 
will  remain  and  go  with  you  wherever  you  please." 

He  went  with  the  councillor  to  order  away  his  carriage.  As  I  had  appeared  to 
him  in  rather  a  suspicious  light,  he  sought  further  information  about  me.  The  coun- 
cillor was  kind  enough  to  say  everything  thatwas  pleasant.  I  understood  it  the  moment 
G  25 


THE    DIADEM. 

they  re-entered.  The  old  gentleman  was  as  good  humored  as  ever.  He  handed  me 
a  glass  of  punch  and  cried,  "Long  live  the  beans!  and,  nota  bene!  whatever  they 
signify."     We  drank  together.     Life  came  back  into  me. 

"  And  so  you  are  Mr.  Von  Walter,"  said  he,  after  a  pause. 

"  Only  Walter,  no  Ton." 

"  And  you  were  in  Vienna  a  year  ago  ?" 

"  Yes,  indeed!"  answered  I,  and  I  felt  as  if  I  were  all  on  fire. 

"  So,  so  !"  said  he  :  "  My  sister-in-law  has  told  me  a  good  deal  about  you.  You 
resided  in  the  same  hotel.  You  paid  much  attention  to  the  good  lady — and  she  will 
thank  you  for  it  in  person." 

The  conversation  now  became  more  general  until  the  company  broke  up.  The 
lieutenant  colonel  went  home  with  me,  and  I  conducted  him  immediately  to  his  room. 

"  And  now,"  said  he,  "  I  have  thus  far  been  obedient.  What  have  you  so  very 
important  to  tell  me  ?" 

I  began  about  Vienna,  about  the  aunt,  about  Josephine. 

"I  know  all  about  that!"  cried  he,  "but  the  d — 1!  what  has  it  to  do  with  the 
bean  you  showed  me." 

I  now  laid  aside  all  raanceuvring.     He  learned  all. 

"  I  know  all  that,  too !"  cried  he  again  :  "  But  the  bean,  the  bean !" 

I  then  told  him  of  my  second  journey  to  Vienna. 

He  burst  out  a  laughing,  and  shook  me  cordially  by  the  hand. — "  Nothing  more 
now !  we  will  talk  more  to-morrow.  For  you  see  that  I  have  nothing  to  say  about  it. 
What  do  you  want  of  me  ? — To-morrow  we  will  ride  out  to  my  house.  There  you 
will  see  Josephine  and  become  acquainted  with  my  Sophia,  that's  clear ;  people  must 
get  acquainted  with  one  another." 

We  separated,  I  went  to  bed  but  could  not  sleep  without  feverish  dreams. 


"  Come,  Mr.  Walter,  out  with  the  truth !"  said  the  old  gentleman  to  me  the  fol- 
lowing morning  at  breakfast :  "  I  know  you  are  a  rich  man  ;  I  see  you  are  a  young 
man,  from  whom  the  girls  will  not  run  away  into  a  nunnery  ;  I  hear  you  are  an  honest 
man,  whom  all  the  world  respects ;  and  I  now  learn  from  yourself  that  you  are  a  man 
in  love  ;  but  all  this  together  is  not  enough  without — " 

"  My  family  is  not  noble  !"  interrupted  L 

"  That's  not  it,  sir,  where  mind  and  heart  have  a  diploma  of  nobility  from  heaven, 
man's  diploma  may  be  dispensed  with.  I  was  no  nobleman,  and  yet  the  countess 
Sophia  loved  me." 

"  What,  then,  is  wanting?"  asked  L 

"  That  I  will  tell  you  now,  because,  nota  bene  !  it  is  morning.  In  the  evening 
when  one  is  oppressed  with  the  toil  and  care  of  the  whole  day,  and  the  strong  man 
becomes  weak,  and  the  greatest  man  somewhat  less,  one  ought  not  to  lay  the  least 
straw  upon  his  shoulder,  so  out  with  the  truth  :  with  your  bean  there  it  is  a  very  dif- 
ferent thing  from  mine.     Mine  was  the  work  of  providence  ;  first,  a  stumbling  block ; 

26 


THE    BEAN. 

then  a  corner  stone  and  main  pillar  of  true  love  :  finally,  a  world,  which  flung  itself 
between  two  long  united  hearts,  and  at  last  the  magnet  that  drew  us  together  again. 
Your  love  is  a  mere  freak  of  imagination.  I  lived  for  Sophia  from  the  very  first 
moment  I  saw  her;  but  it  was  not  until  a  good  year  after  you  first  became  acquainted 
with  Josephine  that  you  fell  in  love  with  her.  Understand  me.  I  mean  no  insinua- 
tions. You  will  awake  from  your  dream,  when  you  see  my  daughter  again,  and  the 
heavenly  creation  of  your  imagination  is  changed  into  a  quite  human  maiden.  Finally, 
and,  nota  bene !  let  us  take  the  bull  by  the  horns  ;  Josephine  loves  you  not." 

"  That  is  hard!"  sighed  I:  "  but  are  you  sure  of  it?" 

"  We  will  go  out  to-day  to  my  country  seat  and  you  can  convince  yourself. 
What  I  know  of  your  stay  in  Vienna,  I  have  learned  from  my  sister-in-law,  not  from 
my  daughter,  who,  perhaps,  hardly  remembers  your  name. — Besides,  we  have  a  dan- 
gerous neighbor,  the  young  count  Von  Holten.  He  visits  us  often.  Josephine  is 
always  glad  to  see  him.  I  have  often  caught  her  looking  at  him  for  some  moments 
with  evident  pleasure,  and  when  she  foimd  me  observing  her,  she  would  blush  fire-red 
and  skip  laughing  and  singing  away." 

"  If  that  is  the  case,  colonel,"  said  I  after  a  long  pause,  in  which  I  sought  to 
collect  myself:  "  I  will  not  go  with  you.  It  is  best  forme  never  to  see  your  daughter 
again." 

"There  you  are  mistaken.  I  am  anxious  for  your  peace  of  mind.  You  must 
see  her  to  correct  your  imagination,  and  recover  yourself  completely." 

After  many  pros  and  cons  I  took  my  seat  beside  him  in  the  carriage;  indeed,  I 
began  to  perceive  that  my  imagination  might  have  been  playing  me  a  trick.  As  long 
as  I  lived  alone  in  my  love  dreams,  I  became  so  intimate  with  ray  ideal,  I  adorned 
Josephine  with  such  unearthly  charms,  I  painted  her — for  that  my  enthusiasm  could 
easily  do, — so  gentle,  so  tender,  so  true  and  so  silent  an  object  of  love,  that  the  very 
first  moment  I  exchanged  a  word  upon  the  state  of  my  heart  with  a  third  person,  I 
instantly  perceived  that  one  half  of  my  story  was  an  invention  of  my  own.  So  long 
as  a  thought  or  feeling  remains  unexpressed,  we  know  not  its  form.  It  is  the  garment  of 
the  thought,  the  word,  that  first  gives  it  definiteness,  and  separates  the  dream  from  the 
reality,  and  puts  the  mind  in  a  situation  to  judge  of  it  as  of  something  apart  from 
itself. 

It  was  a  beautiful  morning  in  .June,  when  we  set  out  for  the  residence  of  the  Von 
Tarnaus,  and — what  astonished  myself— ray  mind  was  as  clear  and  ([uiet  as  it  had 
been  a  year  before.  My  civil  and  polite  relations  to  Josephine  and  her  aunt  during 
my  first  visit  to  Vienna  came  up  to  my  remembrance  so  distinctly,  that  I  could  not  even 
imagine  how  I  could  have  been  thrown  into  such  a  fever  only  the  day  before,  and  for 
days  and  months  previous.  Yes,  and  the  worst  of  it  was,  that  I  saw  now,  that  I  had 
not  loved  Josephine  in  Vienna,  and  that  even  now  I  did  not  love  her,  although  I 
might  find  her  very  lovely. 

Tiie  carriage  stopped  before  a  simple  villa.  'I'he  servants  appeared.  The 
colonel  conducted  me  into  a  parlor,  where  two  elderly  ladies  came  forward  to  wel- 
come us. 

27 


THE    DIADEM. 

He  mentioned  my  name,  and  then  said  while  he  put  his  arm  round  the  elder  of 
the  two  :  "  And  this  is  my  Sophia!" 

I  bowed  respectfully  to  the  old  lady  of  three-score,  who  had  become  very  inte- 
resting to  me  through  the  narrative  of  the  evening  before.  "  Oh!"  sighed  I  in  my 
heart :   "  What  are  youth  and  beauty  ?" 

I  could  almost  have  believed  that  the  experienced  old  soldier  read  in  my  eyes 
the  meaning  of  my  sigh.  For  he  pressed  his  wife's  hand  to  his  lips  and  said  laugh- 
ingly: "Is  it  not  so,  dear  friend  .'  When  one  sees  old  ladies  and  gentlemen,  one 
can  hardly  convince  himself  that  they  have  once  been  young:  and  when  one  sees  a 
maiden  in  all  the  freshness  of  her  bloom,  he  is  ready  to  wager  that  she  never  could 
have  wrinkles  and  gray  hair." 

Josephine's  aunt  recognized  me  as  quickly  as  I  did  her.  She  said  many  obliging 
things  to  me.  We  sat  down  to  the  table  ;  and  took  a  second  breakfast  for  the  sake  of 
the  ladies'  company. 

"And  where  does  Josephine  keep  herself?"  asked  the  old  man;  "she  will  be 
glad  to  renew  her  Vienna  acquaintance." 

"  She  is  out  in  the  garden  with  count  Holten  to  enjoy  the  auriculas  before  the 
sun  is  too  high,"  replied  her  aunt;  and  here  I  got  a  little  chill.  All  my  old  imagina- 
tions were  over. — I  collected  myself  instantly.  I  never  had  had  any  claims  here  ;  and 
so  I  had  none  to  lose.  I  began  to  be  almost  ashamed  of  the  follies  of  my  heart  and  of 
the  tricks  of  my  imagination.  I  became  lively,  fell  in  with  the  merry  tone  of  the 
company,  and  even  related  to  the  aunt,  how  painfully  I  had  missed  her  upon  my 
second  visit  to  Vienna. 

During  the  conversation  a  young  man  entered  of  a  noble  mien.  His  countenance 
was  pale,  his  eye  dark  and  gloomy,  in  his  manner  was  something  strange  and  dis- 
turbed. 

"  Ladies,"  said  he  in  a  hasty  and  subdued  tone  as  if  he  had  studied  this  speech, 
"  permit  me  to  take  my  leave  of  you.  I  must  return  to-day  to  the  Residence — I  have 
— I  am — I  shall,  perhaps,  be  absent  for  some  time,  perhaps  make  a  long  journey." 

The  colonel  turned  and  looked  fixedly  at  him.  "  What  disturbs  you.  Count 
Holten.'"  cried  he;  "you  look  as  if  you  had  committed  a  murder." 

"  No,"  rejjlied  he  with  a  forced  smile,  "  rather  like  a  man  who  has  been  mur- 
dered." 

And  with  that  he  kissed  the  ladies'  hands,  embraced  the  colonel,  and  rushed  out 
of  the  house  without  saying  another  word.  The  colonel  followed  him  in  all  haste. 
The  ladies  were  greatly  embarrassed.  I  learned  that  this  young  man  was  their 
neighbor  Count  Holten ;  that  the  evening  before,  as  he  had  often  done,  he  had  come 
to  pay  them  a  visit,  had  appeared  very  happy  an  hour  before  and  was  now  no  more 
like  himself. 

"What  has  happened  to  him.'"  asked  the  ladies  when  the  colonel  after  some 
time  returned. 

The  old  gentleman  looked  very  serious,  shook  his  head,  smiled  across  to  his 
Sophia,  and  said;  "You  must  ask  Josephine." 

28 


THE    BEAN. 

"  Has  she  offended  him  ?"  inquired  the  aunt,  alarmed. 

"  That  is  as  people  take  it!"  replied  he  ;  "  it  is  a  long  story,  but  the  count  told  it 
in  two  or  three  words :  '  I  loved  and  was  not  loved  in  return.'  " 

Just  then  the  door  opened  and  Miss  Von  Tarnau  entered.  It  was  she,  and  more 
lovely,  more  beautiful  than  when  I  saw  her  in  Vienna,  more  graceful  than  in  my 
dreams.  I  arose,  but  when  I  would  approach  her,  my  knees  trembled,  I  was  rooted 
to  the  spot — I  stammered  out  some  disconnected  words — I  was  at  once  the  most  happy 
and  the  most  miserable  of  mortals. 

Josephine  stood  at  the  door  blushing  deeply  ;  she  gazed  at  me  as  at  an  apparition, 
and  then  recovering  from  her  surprise,  smilingly  approached  the  table  after  the  first 
exchange  of  salutations ;  the  riddle  of  our  unexpected  meeting  was  solved.  I  related 
how  I  had  learned  her  whereabouts  only  the  day  before  ;  and  she,  how  her  father  had 
bought  the  Moravian  estate,  and  had  settled  down  here  in  the  midst  of  the  most  charm- 
ing landscape  in  the  world. 

"Ah,  aunt,  dear  aunt!"  cried  she,  taking  her  aunt's  hand  in  both  hers,  and 
pressing  it  to  her  heart,  while  she  threw  upon  me  a  look  which  sparkled  with  no 
doubtful  joy  :   "  Did  not  I  tell  you  so  ?     Was  I  not  right  ?" 

The  good  aunt  smiled  and  cast  a  silencing  look  upon  Josephine.  Her  mother 
cast  her  eyes  down  to  conceal  a  certain  embarrassment.  Her  old  father  looked  inqui- 
ringly from  one  to  the  other,  arose  and  whispered  in  my  ear  with  a  loud  voice:  "Mr. 
Walter,  I  guess  you  have  found  the  bean  in  the  right  place  at  last. — But  you,  Josephine, 
what  have  you  done  to  Count  Holten,  that  he  has  gone  off  in  such  a  fury.'" 

Josephine  answered  evasively.  We  all  arose  and  went  into  the  garden.  The 
lieutenant  colonel  showed  me  his  meadows,  fields,  outhouses,  stables,  &c.,  whilst  the 
ladies  were  in  lively  conversation  in  the  summer  house.  After  a  tedious  half  hour 
we  returned  to  them  from  this  domestic  survey.  The  old  gentleman  was  called  aside, 
and  Josephine  left  to  entertain  me. 

I  intended  to  be  very  reserved  towards  Josephine, — I  was  afraid  of  the  fate  of 
Count  Holten.  We  spoke  of  our  acquaintance  in  Vienna,  of  our  former  intercourse, 
walks  and  various  little  incidents.  "Ah!"  cried  Josephine,  "if  you  only  knew  what 
I  have  suffered  on  your  account,  when  you  were  so  suddenly  called  away  from  us. 
Certainly,  there  has  not  been  a  moment  since — yes,  we  have  often  talked  about  you." 

And  now — how  could  I  have  done  otherwise? — Now  I  told  her  my  whole  story, 
my  second  journey  to  Vienna,  my  possession  of  her  apartments— and  ever  more 
softly,  ever  more  timidly — the  finding  of  the  bean — my  return  to  my  native  city — the 
history  of  the  evening  before.  Here  I  paused.  I  did  not  dare  to  look  up.  I  played 
in  the  sand  with  my  foot.     Josephine's  silence  lasted  a  long  while. 

At  last  I  thought  I  heard  a  sob.  I  looked  up.  She  had  hidden  her  face  in  her 
handkerchief. — With  a  trembling  voice  I  asked  :  "  For  heaven's  sake,  Miss  Josephine, 
has  my  frankness  displeased  you  ?" 

She  let  the  handkerchief  fall,  and  looked  at  me  smiling  through  her  tears.     "Is 
H  29 


THE    DIADEM. 

it  all  true  ?"  she  asked  after  a  pause.  I  tore  the  bean  from  my  neck  and  held  it  up 
before  her  with  the  words :  "  Here  is  my  witness." 

She  took  the  bean,  as  if  from  curiosity,  merely  to  examine  the  setting.  Her 
tears  flowed  still  more  freely.  Leaning  on  my  arm  she  laid  her  forehead  on  my 
shoulder,  and  whispered  :  "I  believe  in  a  providence,  Walter!" 

I  clasped  the  lovely  creature  to  my  heart,  and  cried:  "  Now  I  could  die !" — She 
looked  up  at  me  alarmed. 

The  voices  of  persons  approaching  through  the  shrubbery,  warned  us  to  go  and 
meet  them.  Josephine  still  had  the  bean  in  her  hand  when  we  stood  before  her 
parents.  The  colonel  saw  it  and  laughed  aloud. — Josephine  hid  her  beautiful  face 
in  her  mother's  bosom — Yet  why  more  words  .■'  You  well  know  that  Josephine  is  my 
wife  ;  I  wished  to  relate  to  you  only  the  Romance  of  my  love. 


PASSAGES   FROM   THE   LIFE  OF  THE   CONTENTED  SCHOOLMASTER 

OF   AUENTHAL. 


TRANSLATKD     FROM     J.     P.     niCIITER. 


How  gentle  and  sea-smooth  were  thy  life  and  death,  thou  contented  schoolmaster, 
Wutz !  The  calm  clear  sky  of  a  declining  summer  encompassed  thy  life,  not  with 
clouds,  but  fragrance.  Thy  epochs  were  the  swinging  of  a  lily,  and  thy  death  its 
dropping  to  pieces,  when  its  leaves  flutter  down  over  the  flowers  which  stand  beneath 
it — and  even  before  thou  enteredst  the  grave,  how  soft  was  thy  slumber! 

The  family  of  Wutz  had  been  schoolmasters  in  Auenthal  since  the  time  of  the 
Swedes,  and  I  do  not  believe,  that  any  one  of  them  was  ever  compktined  of  by  the 
pastor  of  the  parish.  Eight  or  nine  years  after  a  wedding,  father  and  son  always 
discreetly  performed  the  office  together — our  hero  was  a  teacher  of  a,  b,  c,  under  his 
father,  the  week  in  which  he  learned  to  spell,  but  this  was  of  no  disadvantage.  There 
was  something  .sportive  and  child-like  in  the  character  of  our  Wutz,  as  there  is  in  the 
teaching  of  other  schoolmasters;  appearing,  however,  not  in  his  serious  moments,  but 
in  those  of  joy. 

While  still  a  child,  he  was  a  little  childish.  For  there  are  two  kinds  of  children's 
plays,  the  childish  and  the  serious. — The  serious  consist  in  imitations  of  grown  people, 
making-believe  merchants,  soldiers  or  mechanics — the  childish  are  the  aping  of 
animals.  Wutz,  was  always  in  his  plays  a  hare,  a  turtle  dove  or  its  young,  a  bear,  a 
horse,  or  even  the  horse's  cart.  Believe  me,  a  seraph  finds  even  in  our  colleges 
and  high  schools,  not  business  but  only  plays  ;  and  if  strictly  examined,  only  these 
two  kinds  of  plays. 

From  his  later  years,  we  might  easily  discover  what  he  was  in  youth.  In  the 
month  of  December,  he  was  accustomed  to  have  the  lights  brought  an  hour  later  than 
usual,  because  at  this  hour — taking  it  up  each  day  where  he  left  otf  the  preceding — 
he  recapitulated  his  childhood.  While  the  wind  shaded  his  window  with  snow-cur- 
tains, and  the  fire  glimmered  from  the  stove,  he  shut  up  his  eyes,  and  permitted  the 
frozen  meadows  of  his  long-withered  spring  again  to  thaw  ;  again  he  plunged  into  the 
hay-cock  with  his  sister,  and  again,  with  his  closed  eyes,  as  they  well  couUI  guide  him, 
he  rode  home  upon  the  architecturally  piled  mountain  of  the  hay- wagon.  In  the  cool 
of  evening,  while  the  swallows  were  skirmishing  among  themselves,  he  mimicked  the 
crying  of  the  mother  bird,  twittering  for  her  young. — Then  he  became  a  wooden 
Christmas  fowl,  with  feathers  glued  on — and  next  a  hoopon,  with  wooden  beak  pick- 
ing straws  and  feathers  from  the  beds  to  build  a  nest.  Upon  another  of  these  retro- 
spective winter  evenings,  he  had   arisen  on  a  splendid  'J'rinity  Sunday,  (I  wish  there 

31 


THE    DIADEM. 

were  365  Trinity  Sundays,)  with  the  tuneful  spring  morning  all  around  and  within 
him.  He  strutted  through  the  village  into  the  garden  with  a  jingling  bunch  of  keys, 
cooled  himself  in  the  dew,  and  with  glowing  face  pushed  his  way  among  the  drooping 
currant  bushes;  measured  his  height  with  the  tall  shrubs,  and  with  his  pliant  fingers 
plucked  roses  for  the  aged  pastor  and  his  pulpit. — On  the  evening  of  the  same  Trinity 
Sunday,  (and  this  formed  a  second  course  for  the  December  evening,)  while  the  sun 
shone  on  his  back,  he  smashed  forth  among  the  organ  keys  the  chorus,  "  Glory  to 
God  in  the  highest."  He  was  accustomed  to  shuffle  together  the  most  dissimilar 
things,  while  remembering  in  these  evening  hours  his  undertakings  in  the  December 
of  his  childhood — his  pleasure  in  hooking  together  the  window  shutters,  and  sitting 
down  at  his  ease  in  the  fire-lighted  apartment ;  though  he  did  not  like  to  look  for  a 
length  of  time  at  the  window  panes,  as  they  reflected  over  the  shutters  the  out-stretched 
room  ; — then,  how  he  and  his  sister  peeped  among  their  mother's  supper  cakes,  piled 
them  up  and  pulled  them  down;  and  how  he  and  she  twinkled  their  eyes  at  the 
dazzling  light,  when  the  tallow  candles  -were  brought  in,  planting  themselves  within 
the  breast-work  of  their  father's  legs ;  and  how  warm,  satisfied  and  happy  they  felt 
themselves  in  this  closet  of  an  apartment,  cut  out,  or  built  up  for  them,  from  the 
immeasurable  expanse  of  the  universe.  And  every  year,  when  he  thus  arranged  the 
retrospect  of  his  childhood  and  its  Decembers,  he  forgot  himself,  and  was  astonished, 
when  the  light  was  brought  in,  that  he  was  even  now  sitting  in  the  room  which  he 
had  been  regarding  as  a  Loretto  house,  brought  from  the  Canaan  of  childhood. 


After  describing  the  rules  laid  down  by  Wutz  for  preserving  a  contented  spirit, 
his  wedding,  &c.,  Jean  Paul  continues: 

But  now,  while  I  am  telling  these  things,  the  wedding  of  Wutz  has  long  been 
over;  his  Justina  is  old,  and  he  himself  is  in  the  grave-yard.  The  stream  of  time  has 
borne  him  along,  w'ith  all  those  bright  days,  and  sunk  and  buried  them  beneath  four 
or  five  feet  of  earth — the  returning  tide  is  ever  rising  higher  upon  ourselves:  in  three 
minutes  it  will  reach  the  heart  of  you  and  me,  and  down  we  sink! 

In  this  state  of  feeling,  I  am  not  disposed  to  communicate  the  many  pleasures 
recorded  by  the  schoolmaster  in  his  joy-manual,  particularly  his  Christmas-eve,  paro- 
chial and  school  pleasures — possibly  they  may  be  inserted  in  a  posthumous  postscript 
which  I  may  hereafter  publish,  but  not  to-day.  To-day  it  will  be  better  for  us  to  look 
for  the  last  time  at  our  contented  Wutz,  alive  and  dead,  and  then  we  will  go  away. 

I  had,  indeed — though  I  had  probably  passed  thirty  times  before  his  door — known 
little  concerning  the  entire  man,  until,  on  the  12th  of  May,  last  year,  old  Justina, 
observing  that  I  wrote  on  my  tablet  as  I  passed  along,  called  after  me  and  inquired 
whether  I  too  were  not  a  book-maker  .' — "  What  if  I  am,  dear  .'"  I  answered — "  some 
books  I  make  every  year  and  duly  present  to  the  public." — She  then  proceeded  to  beg 
me  to  take  the  trouble  to  go  in  to  her  old  man  for  an  hour,  who  was  a  book-maker 
like  myself,  but  now  in  a  miserable  condition. 

A  palsy  had  struck  the  old  man's  left  side,  possibly  in  consequence  of  his  having 

3-2 


PASSAGES  FROM   THE   LIFE   OF   THE   CONTENTED  SCHOOLMASTER. 

healed  up  a  ring-worm,  of  the  size  of  a  dollar,  upon  his  neck,  or  from  old  age.  He 
was  sitting  in  bed  supported  by  pillows,  and  had  the  contents  of  a  whole  warehouse, 
which  I  will  forthwith  specify,  spread  before  him  on  the  coverlet — a  sick  man  does  as 
a  traveller — and  what  else  is  he  ? — he  becomes  acquainted  with  every  one  immediately ; 
when  foot  and  eye  are  so  near  to  higher  worlds,  we  cease  to  stand  on  ceremony  in  this 
rough  one.  He  complained  that  his  old  woman  had  been  obliged  to  look  round  for 
three  days,  after  a  book-maker,  and  had  found  no  one  until  now — but  that  he  needed 
one  to  arrange  and  take  an  inventory  of  his  library,  and  also  add  to  the  description  of 
his  life  contained  in  the  library,  an  account  of  his  last  hours,  in  case  they  bad  now 
arrived,  as  its  completion  ;  for  his  old  woman  was  no  scholar,  and  his  son  had  been 
left  by  him  three  weeks  since  at  the  university  in  Heidelberg. 

A  crop  of  pock-marks  and  wrinkles  gave  his  little  round  face  strangely  comical 
holes,  each  one  resembling  a  laughing  mouth  ;  but  I  and  my  diagnosis  had  no  plea- 
sure in  remarking  how  his  eyes  flushed,  his  eye-brows  and  the  corners  of  his  mouth 
contracted,  and  his  lips  quivered. 

I  will  keep  my  promise  respecting  the  specification.  On  the  coverlet  lay  a 
child's  green  taffety  cap,  one  of  the  strings  of  which  had  been  torn  off;  a  child's 
whip,  covered  with  gold  leaf  pealing  off;  a  tin  finger  ring;  a  box  with  dwarf  volumes, 
allowing  one  hundred  and  twenty-eight  to  a  sheet  of  paper  ;  a  clock  ;  a  blotted  wri- 
ting-book, and  a  finch-trap  a  finger  long.  These  were  the  beginnings  and  endings  of 
his  playful  childhood.  The  cabinet  of  these,  his  Grecian  antiquities,  had  always  been 
under  the  staircase  ; — for  in  a  house  which  is  the  flower-vase  and  conservatory  of  a 
whole  race,  things  remain  in  place  undisturbed  for  fifty  years  together.  And  since 
from  childhood  it  had  been  with  him  a  fixed  law  to  take  <ip  all  his  play-things  in 
precise  order,  and  no  one  but  himself  through  the  wiiole  year  ever  peeped  under  the 
stairs,  he  was  consequently  able,  upon  the  preparation-day  before  his  death-day,  to 
arrange  around  him  these  funeral  urns  of  an  already  deceased  life  ;  and  to  enjoy  him- 
self in  retrospection,  when  no  longer  able  to  enjoy  himself  in  anticipation.  Thou, 
indeed,  little  Wutz,  couldst  enter  no  temple  of  antiques  at  Sansouci  or  Dresden,  and 
there  kneel  down  before  the  world-spirit  of  the  beautiful  Nature  of  Art ;  yet  even  thou 
hast  had  thy  childhood's  antique  tabernacle  of  testimony  beneath  a  dark  staircase,  into 
which  thou  couldst  fondly  look — in  whose  dusky  corners  played  the  sunbeams  of 
a  childhood-resurrection,  like  the  halos  on  the  pictures  of  the  Christ-child  in  his 
manser!  O,  if  greater  souls  than  thine  could  bu(  inhale  I'roni  natvire's  whole  conscrva- 
tory,  as  many  sweet  juices  and  odors  as  Ihou  couldst  extract  from  the  green  jagged  leaf 
upon  which  Fate  laid  thee,  then,  indeed,  gardens  instead  of  leaves  might  be  enjoyed; 
and  better  souls,  more  blessed  by  fortune,  would  no  longer  wonder  that  there  could 
be  a  contented  schoolmaster! 

Motioning  with  his  head  towards  the  book-shelf,  Wutz  said,  "  When  I  am  weary 
of  reading  and  correcting  my  serious  works,  I  gaze  by  the  hour  together  upon  these 
playthings,  and,  perhaps,  an  aullior  need  not  be  ashamed  of  so  doing." 

I  know  not  how  I  can  do  the  public  at  this  time  a  greater  service,  than  by  pre- 
I  33 


THE    DIADEM. 

senting  it  with  a  catalogue  raisonne  of  these  specimens  of  art  and  trilling  with  which 
the  patient  favored  me.  A  little  damsel  of  four  years  old,  the  daughter  of  the  former 
pastor,  had  put  on  his  hand  the  tin  ring  as  a  matrimonial  pledge,  when  they  were 
formally  joined  together  in  wedlock  by  one  of  their  playmates — the  humble  tin  excited 
in  him  a  truer  flame  towards  her  during  their  marriage,  which  lasted  fifty-four  minutes, 
than  is  raised  by  nobler  metals  in  nobler  people.  Often  afterwards,  when  as  a  slovenly 
alumnus  he  saw  her  pass  by  with  tall  nodding  feathers,  hanging  on  the  thin  arm  of 
some  perfumed  beau,  he  thought  of  the  ring  and  the  old  times. — Having  been  accus- 
tomed to  help  his  father  wind  up  the  tower  clock,  as  crown  princes  used  in  former 
times  to  attend  the  Sessions  with  their  fathers,  this  little  circumstance  gave  him  the 
hint  to  cut  a  round  hole  in  a  lackered  box,  and  convert  it  into  a  time-piece  which 
never  went;  though,  in  the  meanwhile,  like  many  state  bodies,  it  had  its  long  weights 
and  jagged  wheels,  which  were  taken  from  a  toy-frame  of  Nuremburg  horses,  and  thus 
applied  to  a  more  dignified  use. — The  green  child's  cap  trimmed  with  lace,  sole  relic 
of  his  former  four-year-old  head,  was  to  the  grown  man  the  bust  and  gypsum  cast  of 
little  Wutz.  The  everyday  clohes  of  one  who  is  deceased  bring  his  image  before  us 
with  more  intimate  familiarity  than  any  portrait ; — hence,  Wutz  contemplated  this  little 
green  cap  with  a  longing  rapture  amid  the  ice  of  old  age;  it  was  a  green  oasis  of  his 
long  since  snow-buried  childhood.  "  If  I  only  had,"  he  would  say,  "  my  flannel 
petticoat,  which  was  always  tied  under  my  shoulders !" — I  have  held  in  my  hands 
the  first  writing-book  of  the  king  of  Prussia,  and  the  first  of  the  schoolmaster  Wutz, 
and  it  is  my  decided  opinion,  that  the  king  wrote  best  when  he  was  a  child,  and 
the  schoolmaster  worst. — "  Mother,"  he  would  say  to  his  wife,  "just  compare  your 
husband's  writing  here,"  showing  the  book,  "  with  his  writing  there,"  pointing  to  a 
law-paper,  the  master-piece  of  his  calligraphy,  which  he  had  nailed  on  the  wall.  He 
bragged  before  no  one  but  his  wife.  I  hold  in  all  due  esteem  this  special  advantage 
of  matrimony — that  the  husband  thereby  acquires  a  second  /,  before  whom  he  can 
heartily,  and  without  any  hesitation,  praise  himself!  W^ould  that  the  German  j)ublic 
were  that  second  /to  authors! — The  box  was  a  book  case  of  Lilliputian  treatises  in 
the  form  of  a  miniature  almanac,  which  he  put  forth  in  his  childhood,  writing  on  each 
a  verse  from  the  Bible,  and  calling  them,  "  his  pretty  Kobler."*  Other  authors  may 
have  done  the  same,  but  not  before  they  were  grown  up.  Referring  in  my  presence 
to  his  juvenile  taste  for  writing,  he  remarked, — "  as  a  child  I  was  a  mere  simpleton, 
yet  the  impulse  to  authorship  appeared,  though  still  in  an  immature  and  ridiculous 
form." — So  too  with  the  finch-trap  ;  was  not  the  one  a  finger  long,  which  he  moistened 
with  beer  and  used  for  catching  flies,  a  precursor  of  the  larger  one  of  an  arm's  length, 
behind  which  in  the  waning  autumn  he  passed  hours  as  agreeable  as  those  which  the 
finches  spent  in  it  were  the  reverse.  The  indispensable  thing  in  catching  birds  is  a 
calm  spirit  contented  with  itself. 

It  may  be  easily  understood,  how,  during  his  sickness,  an  old  almanac  with  its 

•  In  allusion  to  Kobler's  cabinet  sermons. 
34 


PASSAGES  FROM   THE   LIFE   OF   THE  CONTENTED  SCHOOLMASTER. 

twelve  grotesque  pictures  for  the  months,  formed  one  of  his  chief  amusements.  With- 
out being  obliged  to  take  off  his  hat  or  knock  at  the  door  of  any  picture-gallery,  he 
enjoyed  more  pictorial  and  artistic  pleasure  than  other  Germans,  who  both  bow  and 
knock.     And  this  consisted  in  performing  a  pilgrimage  through  the  eleven  vignettes 

of  the  months he   always   skipped   that  of  the   month    then   present.     In  these 

■wood  engraving  excursions  he  indulged  in  every  fancy  suggested  by  them  or  himself. 
Hard,  indeed,  it  was  for  him,  whether  in  his  sick  or  well  days,  to  climb  in  imagination 
the  dark  leafless  tree  of  the  January  winter-piece,  and  place  himself  beneath  a  cloudy 
sky  drooping  towards  the  earth  and  bending  like  the  tester  of  a  bed  over  the  winter 
slumber  of  the  meadows  and  fields.  But  when  he  permitted  his  fancy  to  expatiate 
over  the  wood-cut  of  the  June  landscape,  the  whole  month  rose  before  him  with  its 
long  days  and  longer  grass  ;  the  little  crosses,  intended  to  figure  birds,  soared  away  on 
the  dingy  paper,  and  the  thick  foliage  of  the  trees  was  represented  by  the  engraver  in 
leaf  skeletons.  It  is  the  possessor  of  imagination  alone,  who  makes  for  himself  a 
miraculous  relic  out  of  every  shred,  and  a  flowing  brook  from  every  ass's  jaw-bone  ; 
the  five  senses  present  him  merely  with  the  cartoons — with  the  bare  ground-work  of 
pleasure  or  discontent. 

The  patient  turned  over  the  leaf  of  May,  as  May  was  standing  abroad  and  around 
the  house.  The  cherry-blossoms  with  which  this  joyous  month  sprinkles  her  green 
hair,  the  May-flowers  wliich  as  harbingers  of  the  rose  breathe  their  sweet  odors  over 
her  bosom,  he  could  inhale  no  more — his  sense  of  smelling  was  gone — but  he  could 
look  at  them,  and  had  some  of  them  in  a  dish  by  the  side  of  his  sick  bed. 

I  have  now  craftily  effected  my  purpose — and  this  was  to  turn  off  myself  and  my 
readers  five  or  six  points  from  that  sad  crisis,  when  before  the  eyes  of  all  of  us  death 
must  advance  towards  the  sick  bed  of  our  friend,  and  slowly  press  his  icy  cold  hands 
against  that  warm  breast,  seizing,  alarming,  and  forever  stopping  the  pulsations  of  that 
contented  heart. 

I  remained  there  the  whole  day,  and  at  evening  said  I  would  watch  with  him 
through  the  night.  His  excited  brain  and  contracted  features  had  almost  persuaded 
me  that  the  stroke  would  be  repeated  in  the  night ;  but  it  did  not  happen,  which  was 
a  great  satisfaction  both  to  me  and  the  schoolmaster.  For  he  had  said  to  me — and  the 
same  stands  on  record  in  his  last  treatise — that  nothing  could  be  more  beautiful  and 
easy  than  to  die  on  a  bright  day,  when  the  soul  could  still,  through  the  closed  eyes, 
behold  the  high  sun  and  mount  upwards  from  the  withered  body  into  the  wide  blue 
sea  of  light;  while,  on  the  other  hand,  to  be  driven  forth  from  the  warm  body  on  a 
dark  tempestuous  night,  to  make  the  long  descent  to  the  grave  in  such  solitude,  when 
nature  herself  is  setting  too  and  shutting  her  dying  eyes — such  a  death  woukl  be  too 
hard. 

At  about  half-past  eleven  o'clock  of  the  night,  two  of  the  best  friends  of  Wutz's 
youth.  Sleep  and  Dreams,  came  to  his  bed-side  to  take,  as  it  were,  a  last  leave  of  him. 
Or  it  may  be,  that  ye  remained  with  him  still  longer,  and  that  ye  are  the  two  friends 
of  mortals  who  rescue  the  murdered  man  from  the  bloody  hands  of  death,  and  together 

35 


THE    DIADEM. 

convey  him  upon  your  cradling  arms  through  the  cold  subterranean  caverns,  into 
yonder  land  of  light,  where  a  new  morning  sun  and  new  morning  flowers  may  revive 
him  to  an  unslumbering  life! 

I  was  alone  in  the  room — I  heard  nothing  but  the  heavy  breathing  of  the  sick 
man  and  the  ticking  of  my  watch,  which  was  meting  away  his  short  life.  The  yellow 
full  moon  hung  large  in  its  profound  abyss  towards  the  south,  tinging  with  its  pale 
hoary  light  the  May-flowers  of  the  man,  and  the  motionless  clock  and  green  cap  of 
the  child.  The  cherry  tree  before  the  window,  white  with  blossoms,  reflected  its 
trembling  foliage  in  the  moonlight  shadows  upon  the  floor  of  the  room. — In  the  still 
firmament  a  falling  star  sometimes  dropped,  sparkled  and  went  out,  like  man.  It 
occurred  to  me  that  this  very  room,  now  the  dark  open  anti-chamber  of  the  grave, 
was  forty-three  years  ago,  upon  this  same  morning  of  the  l-3th  of  May,  first  entered  by 
the  patient,  who  on  that  day  commenced  the  weeks  of  his  earthly  Elysium — I  beheld 
him  who  then  derived  sweet  odors  and  dreams  from  this  cherry  tree,  now  lying  des- 
titute of  smell  beneath  an  oppressive  dream,  and  about  to  take  his  departure  to-day 
from  this  chamber — all,  all  would  be  over  with  him,  never  more  to  return.  Just  at 
this  moment,  Wutz  began  to  reach  forward  with  the  arm  which  was  still  at  liberty,  as 
if  to  catch  the  falling  sky  ;  and  at  the  same  flickering  instant,  the  day-hand  of  my 
watch  gave  the  alarum,  passing  over  (for  it  was  a  twelve  hour  watch),  from  the  12th 
to  the  13th  of  May. — Death  seemed  to  me  to  be  regulating  my  watch  ;  I  heard  him 
as  it  were  craunching  man  and  his  joys  and  the  world  ;  and  time  itself  seemed  crum- 
bling in  mouldering  decay  down  into  the  abyss  below. 

I  always  remember  this  hour,  when  the  day-hand  of  my  watch  clicks  at  midnight, 
though  it  can  return  no  more  in  the  succession  of  my  remaining  moments. 

The  dying  man — he  will  not  long  retain  this  title — opened  two  blood-shot  eyes 
and  long  looked  wistfully  upon  me.  He  had  dreamed  that  he  was  staggering  as  a 
child  over  a  bed  of  lilies,  which  rose  luxuriantly  like  waves  beneath  him — this  melted 
again  into  a  rosy  cloud,  which  was  lifted  up  and  wafted  along  with  himself  through 
the  golden  beams  of  morning,  and  over  fields  of  flowers  exhaling  vapors — the  sun 
smiled  and  shone  upon  him  with  a  white  virgin  face,  seeming  at  last  to  assume  the 
figure  of  a  young  damsel  encircled  with  a  halo  and  descending  to  his  cloud;  but  he 
was  perplexed  at  being  unable  to  pass  his  crippled  left  arm  around  her. — Hereupon  he 
awoke  from  his  last  dream,  or  rather,  the  dream  before  the  la.st ;  since  the  little  varie- 
gated dreams  of  night  are  but  embroidered  and  painted,  like  fancy-flowers,  upon  the 
long  dream  of  life. 

The  stream  of  his  life  blood  was  continually  flowing  broader  and  faster  towards 
his  brain;  he  was  constantly  fancying  that  he  had  again  become  young;  he  thought 
that  the  moon  was  the  sun  in  a  cloud  ;  and  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  a  flying  baptismal 
angel  was  suspended  by  a  wreath  of  butter-cups  from  a  rainbow,  and  moved  back- 
wards and  forwards  in  continual  semi-circles,  over  abysses  reaching  to  the  sun, 
impelled  by  a  child  of  four  years  old,  who  presented  to  himself  a  ring. — Towards  four 
o'clock  in  the  morning,  he  was  no  longer  able  to  see  me,  though  the  day-dawn  was 

36 


PASSAGES  FROM  THE  LIFE   OF  THE   CONTENTED  SCHOOLMASTER. 

then  in  the  chamber — his  eyes  were  fixed  in  a  stony  gaze — one  spasm  on  the  face 
followed  another,  while  the  lips  were  drawn  apart  in  a  rapturous  smile — spring  fancies, 
belonging  neither  to  this  life  nor  the  other,  played  with  his  departing  spirit.  At  length, 
the  angel  of  death  threw  his  ashy  pail  over  the  countenance,  and  behind  it  drew  forth 
the  evergreen  soul  with  its  deepest  roots,  from  the  corporeal  vase  filled  with  organic 
earth. — Dying  is  sublime  ;  behind  black  curtains,  death  performs  in  solitude  the  silent 
miracle,  working  for  another  world  ;  and  mortals  stand  by  the  super-terrestrial  scene, 
with  tearful  but  undiscerning  eyes. 

"  Thou  good  father,"  cried  his  widow,  "  could  any  one  have  told  thee,  forty- 
three  years  ago,  that  thy  life-weeks  would  end  on  the  same  day  on  which  they  began, 
namely,  the  13th  of  May  .'" — "  His  life- weeks,"  said  I,  "  are  beginning  again,  but  for 
a  longer  duration !" 

When  I  took  leave,  at  eleven  o'clock,  the  earth  was  to  me  like  a  consecrated 
place,  and  the  dead  seemed  to  be  moving  at  my  side.  I  looked  up  to  heaven,  as 
though  in  the  illimitable  aether  I  could  seek  the  departed  only  in  one  direction  ;  and 
when  I  stood  upon  the  hill  from  which  we  look  down  on  Auenthal  and  surveyed  once 
more  the  scene  of  suffering  ;  when  I  saw  the  house  of  mourning  alone  among  the  habi- 
tations with  no  smoke  arising  from  it,  and  beheld  the  grave-diggers  performing  their 
task  in  the  cemetery  ;  when  I  heard  the  funeral  knell  tolled  for  him,  and  thought  of  the 
widow's  streaming  eyes — I  felt  our  utter  nothingness,  and  solemnly  resolved  to  rise 
above  a  life  so  insignificant ;  to  deserve  and  to  enjoy. 

Blessed  art  thou,  dear  Wutz,  that — as  I  pass  through  Auenthal  and  visit  thy  grass 
grown  grave,  and  grieve  that  it  is  now  the  habitation  of  the  caterpillar,  (though  ere 
long  to  be  changed  into  the  winged  butterfly,)  the  banquet-house  of  the  plodding 
worm  and  crawling  snail,  the  circling  ant  and  consuming  canker  worm,  while  thou 
beneath  them  all  art  lying  with  motionless  head  upon  thy  wooden  pillow,  with  no 
kind  sun  to  pierce  thy  narrow  chamber  and  open  thy  shrouded  eyes — blessed  art  thou, 
that  I  can  then  say,  "  While  he  was  in  possession  of  life,  he  enjoyed  it  more  perfectly 
than  any  of  us." 

Enough,  my  friends! — it  is  now  12  o'clock.  The  day-hand  which  indicates  the 
course  of  the  month  has  made  the  transition  to  a  new  day  and  reminded  us  of  a  two- 
fold sleep,  the  sleep  of  the  short,  and  that  of  the  long  night !  L.  O. 


A  FABLE. 


BT     B.     W.     EMERSOX. 


The  mountain  and  the  squirrel 

Had  a  quarrel, 

And  the  former  called  the  latter,  "  little  Prig :" 

Bun  replied, 

You  are  doubtless  very  big, 

But  all  sorts  of  things  and  weather 

Must  be  taken  in  together 

To  make  up  a  year 

And  a  sphere. 

And  I  think  it  no  disgrace 

To  occupy  my  place. 

If  I'm  not  so  large  as  you, 

You  are  not  so  small  as  I, 

And   not  half  so  spry : 

I'll   not  deny  you  make 

A  very  pretty  squirrel  track; 

Talents  differ ;  all  is  well  and  wisely  put ; 
If  I  cannot  carry  forests  on  my  back. 

Neither  can  you  crack  a  nut. 


THE  LAST  POET. 

prom  the  german  of  anastasius  grtjen. 
[the   count   ton    auehsperg.] 

"  When  will  you  bards  be  weary 
Of  rhyming  on  ?     How  long 
Ere  it  is  sung  and  ended 
The  old  eternal  song? 

Is  it  not,  long  since,  empty — 
The  horn  of  full  supply  ; 

And  all  the  posies  gathered, 
And  all  the  fountains  dry?" 

As  long  as  the  Sun's  Chariot 
Yet  keeps  it  azure  track. 

And  but  one  human  visage 

Gives  answering  glances  back ; 

As  long  as  skies  shall  nourish 
The  thunder-bolt  and  gale, 

And  frightened  at  their  fury 

One  throbbing  heart  shall  quail ; 

As  long  as  after  tempest, 

Shall  spring  one  showery  bow, 

One  breast  with  peaceful  promise 
Of  reconcilement  glow  ; 

As  long  as  Night  the  concaye 
Sows  with  its  starry  seed, 

And  but  one  man  those  letters 
Of  golden  writ  can  read  ; 

Long  as  a  moonbeam  glimmers. 
Or  bosom  sighs  a  vow ; 
39 


THE    DIADEM. 

Long  as  the  wood  leaves  rustle 
To  cool  a  weary  brow; 

As  long  as  roses  blossom, 
And  earth  is  green  in  May ; 

As  long  as  eyes  shall  sparkle 
And  smile  in  pleasure's  ray  ; 

As  long  as  cypress  shadows 

The  graves  more  mournful  make, 

Or  one  cheek  's  wet  with  weeping, 
Or  one  poor  heart  can  break ; 

So  long  on  earth  shall  wander 

The  goddess  Poesy, 
And  with  her,  one  exulting 

Her  votarist  to  be. 

And  singing  on,  triumphing. 
The  old  earth-mansion  through, 

Out  marches  the  last  minstrel, — 
He  is  the  last  man  too. 

The  Lord  holds  the  Creation 
Forth  in  his  hand  meanwhile. 

Like  a  fresh  flower  just  opened. 
And  views  it  with  a  smile. 

When  once  this  Flower-Giant 

Begins  to  show  decay. 
And  Earths  and  Suns  are  flying 

Like  blossom-dust  away; 

Then  ask — if  of  the  question 
Not  weary  yet — how  long 

Ere  it  is  sung  and  ended 
The  old  eternal  song. 
40 


THE    SINGER. 


r  ROM     OOETH£. 


T     F.     H.     nEDUE. 


What  strains  are  these  before  the  gate : 
Upon  the  bridge  what  chorus  ? 

Go,  bring  the  minstrel  hither  straight 
And  let  him  play  before  us! 

The  king  commands,  the  page  retires, 

The  page  returns,  the  king  requires 
The  aged  man  to  enter. 


"o 


God  greet  ye!  Lords  and  Ladies  gay! 

What  wealth  of  starry  lustre! 
Star  upon  star  in  rich  array, — 

Who  names  each  shining  cluster.' 
Amid  such  wealth  and  pomp  sublime 
Shut,  shut  mine  eyes!  this  is  no  time 

To  gaze  in  stupid  wonder. 

He  closed  his  eyes,  he  struck  a  chord, 
A  brave  old  ditty  played  he, 

Looked  boldly  on  each  noble  lord. 
And  in  her  lap  each  lady. 

The  king,  delighted  with  the  strain, 

Commanded  that  a  golden  chain 
Reward  the  honored  singer. 

The  golden  chain  give  not  to  me, 

Bestow  it  on  thy  Ritter, 
Who  bears  the  palm  of  chivalry. 

Where  hostile  lances  glitter. 
Bestow  it  on  thy  Chancellor, 
And  be  one  golden  burden  more. 

To  other  burdens  added. 
41 


THE    DIADEM. 

My  song  is  like  the  wood-bird's  note, 

An  unbought,  careless  burden. 
The  lay  that  gushes  from  the  throat 

Is  all-sufficient  guerdon. 
But  might  I  choose,  this  choice  were  mine- 
A  beaker  of  the  richest  wine — 

A  golden  beaker  bring  me ! 

The  beaker  brought,  the  minstrel  quaffed  : 

O  !  balmy  cup  of  blessing. 
And  blessed  the  house,  in  such  a  draught, 

A  common  boon  possessing ! 
When  fortune  smiles  then  think  of  me, 
And  thank  ye  God  as  heartily 

As  I  for  this  now  thank  ye. 


Fji^iMredhyJ.BBrum 


THE  ROSE. 


FROM     ANSA     S 


FROM     THE     GERMAN  ( 


Tannenberg,  May  \st. 
I  WILL  not  let  my  birth-day  pass  without  dedicating  to  it  the  beautiful  red  book, 
that  my  mother  gave  me.  What  a  surprise,  when  I  found  it  to-day  upon  my  birth-day 
table '  I  knew  it  well.  My  sainted  father  had  intended  it  for  his  diary,  and  written  in 
it  with  his  own  hand  the  proverb-"  All  things  are  for  the  best  to  those  who  love 
God  '"  Now  my  beloved  mother  has  given  it  to  me.— She  thought  it  should  belong 
to  me,  because  I,  like  my  father,  love  to  put  on  paper  all  that  rejoices  or  moves  me, 
and  keep  an  herbarium  of  thoughts,  as  sister  Martha  preserves  chosen  leaves  and 
flowers.  It  sounds  strangely  for  a  diary  to  be  kept  by  a  parson's  daughter,  who  lives 
quietly  and  retired  with  her  mother  and  sister  in  the  lonely  parsonage  of  Tannenberg, 
seein-  and  hearing  no  one  from  the  so-called  gay  world,  except  the  daughters  of  the 
bailiff  of  Neuhofr,  and  the  candidates,  who,  alternately  with  the  neighbouring  ministers, 
conduct  the  services  on  Sunday,  until  the  choice  of  a  clergyman  be  decided.  Yet  I 
know  not  how  it  is,  but,  if  sister  Martha  were  not  against  it,  I  could  every  day  fill  a 
sheet,  so  much  does  the  quiet  little  world  around  me  relate  to  me— and  I  have  often 
thought,  the  good  God  must  have  intentionally  directed,  that  he,  who  is  ignorant 
of  th^e  enjoyments  and  affairs  of  the  great  world,  should  possess  a  mind,  which  sees 
such  charms  in  the  most  trifling  and  insignificant  objects,  that  he  can  easily  dis- 
pense with  other  pleasures.  My  thoughts  ran  strangely  on  to-day,  when  I  held  the 
red  book  in  my  hand.  The  many  white  leaves  seemed  to  me  like  the  veiled  book 
of  the  future,  and  I  had  almost  felt  a  secret  alarm,  had  not  the  beautiful  proverb  in 
my  father's  hand,  shamed  me  and  tranquillized  me. 

May  2.— When  yesterday  I  drew  my  mother's  hand  to  my  lips,  and  from  a  full 
heart  spoke  thanks  to  her  for  her  gift  of  love,  and  to  Martha  for  the  beautiful  apple- 
blossom  wreath,  then  I  perceived  a  tear  in  mother's  eye,  and  saw  well  that  she  was 
grieved  at  being  no  longer  able  to  bestow  as  rich  presents  on  us  as  formerly. 

I  had  difliculty  in  convincing  her  that  I  really  need  nothing,  that  my  white  dress 
and  straw-hat  are  quite  good,— and  that  I  possess  besides,  a  tolerable  cvery-day  ward- 
robe. As  a  proof  I  brought  out  the  dress,  that  I,  with  Martha's  help,  had  freshly 
bleached  and  ironed.  My  good  mother  smiled  at  our  prudent  management,  let  me  try 
on  the  new  finery,  and  had  her  joy  in  seeing  me  skip  gaily  about  in  it.  But  when 
we  had  wished  each  other  good  night,  and  I  had  gone  up  to  ray  room,  ray  heart  became 

43 


THE   DIADEM. 

sad,  and  the  moist  eye  of  ray  mother  recurred  to  my  mind ;  and  I  thought  how  all  had 
become  so  changed  since  the  death  of  my  dear  father,  and  how  it  would  become  still 
sadder,  when  the  year  of  grace  being  over,  we,  as  stands  to  reason,  must  leave  our 
peaceful  parsonage. 

I  stepped  to  the  window,  and  looked  down  at  the  pear-tree,  which  every  year 
stretches  up  higher  its  boughs  of  white  blossoms.  Spring  had  this  time  wreathed  it 
with  a  stately  crown.  With  its  fragrance  all  the  joys  of  childhood  rushed  to  my  heart. 
I  saw  the  dear  form  of  my  father  in  the  shadow  of  the  tree  ;  saw  him  let  the  first  graft 
into  the  slender  stem  ;  then  the  long  row  of  festive  days,  when  spring  and  summer  in 
their  turn  gave  us  blossoms  and  fruit  on  the  tree.  A  tear  of  sadness  moistened  my 
cheek.  I  sighed,  that  all  this  was  past,  that  the  purest  joys  on  earth  were  fleeting,  ■ 
and  that  no  return  came  for  the  departed. 

May  3. — It  is  a  blessing  that  God  has  given  such  a  beneficial  po-wer  to  the  sleep  of 
night.  To-day  when  I  awoke,  and  the  young  morning  beams  shone  in,  fresh  and  friendly, 
my  heart  was  again  as  light  as  if  there  was  no  care  upon  earth.  I  sprang  into  the 
garden  and  gave  my  auriculas  a  morning  visit.  What  a  joyful  sight!  They  had 
almost  all  opened  their  little  velvet  caps,  the  morning  dew  had  set  them  with  brilliants, 
and  they  stood  there,  glistening  and  glittering  in  their  pride  of  hues,  and  the  dainty 
bee  already  tasted  the  sweet  dust  of  their  cups. 

The  morning  bell  then  sounded  through  the  still  air.  I  had  wholly  forgotten  that 
to-day  was  Sunday,  although  heaven  and  earth  were  decked  out  in  their  sabbath  dress. 
The  solemn  Sunday  feeling  with  all  its  recollections  thrilled  through  my  soul.  It 
seemed  as  if  I  must  up  to  my  father's  study,  and  lightly  lay  the  bunch  of  auriculas 
upon  his  Bible,  and  then  go  and  pray  under  his  pulpit.  Martha  had  carried  the  break- 
fast into  the  garden,  and  we  were  just  seated  peacefully  together,  when  the  sacristan 
appeared,  and  announced  to  us  that  candidate  Selmont,  who  was  to  hold  divine  ser- 
vice to-day,  begged  permission  to  visit  us.  We  were  all  rejoiced  at  this  message, 
and  dear  mother,  who  had  not  yet  seen  a  minister  in  our  pulpit,  without  wishing  to 
show  him  hospitality,  invited  the  stranger  cordially  to  dinner.  We  were  both  sent 
into  the  kitchen,  and  with  sorrow  we  renounced  the  sermon  ;  but  mother  went  to 
church  to  learn  of  what  manner  of  spirit  was  the  man  who  was  to  visit  us  to-day. 

When  we  were  alone,  we  fell  to  raillery  and  prophesying.  Martha  would  have 
it,  she  had  dreamt  of  a  fire,  which  always  indicates  a  wedding,  but  I  thought  it  strange 
enough,  that  our  great  myrtle  tree  bore  blossoms  to-day  for  the  first  time.  Then  we 
proceeded  to  draw  the  portrait  of  our  guest,  for  that  he  stood  in  some  connection  with 
the  dream,  Martha  held  certain.  We  were  long  hesitating  between  a  Paul  and  John, 
a  Peter  and  Nathaniel,  and  what  with  our  merry  talk  and  intense  expectation,  the 
wafers  were  not  baked,  nor  was  the  table  set.     Mother  came  from  church. 

W^e  pressed  to  the  window,  and  with  child-like  curiosity  examined  her  face.  It 
nodded  to  us  kindly,  but  was  not  lighted  up  with  that  inward  joyfulness  which  we 
had  expected  and  anticipated.  "  God  bless  your  dear  father  !"  said  she  as  she  entered, 
"  it  was  not  his  simple,  true-hearted  word  ;  but  the  gifts  of  the  spirit  are  manifold,  and 

44 


THE    ROSE. 

Herr  Sclmont  employed  his  faithfully.  His  discourse  was  florid  and  elaborate,  like 
poetry,  and  I  believe  he  is  a  man  of  great  learning  !" 

Martha,  at  these  words,  made  a  face  as  if  her  chicken  had  burnt  on  the  .spit.  But 
I  pressed  to  my  heart  my  good  mother,  who  can  see  and  hear  everywhere  only 
father,  and  who,  in  this,  is  just  like  her  daughter  Anna. 

We  soon  saw  the  elegant  form  of  the  expected  guest  coming  across  the  court- 
yard. He  stopped  inthemidst  of  it,  and  regarded  the  parsonage  with  scrutinizing  looks. 
"  Ah,  the  hateful  thatch!"  whispered  Martha,  and  became  red  as  fire.  I  reddened 
also,  but  more  in  displeasure  at  Martha's  expression,  for  to  me,  our  vine-covered 
house  is  the  most  beautiful  and  the  dearest  upon  earth. 

Mother  went  to  meet  our  guest,  who  entered  the  house  with  a  slight  bow. 
His  appearance  put  to  flight  all  our  prophecies.  He  resembled  neither  a  John,  nor 
a  Peter,  but  glanced  around  him  coldly  with  an  air  of  importance.  This  was  not  very 
consoling  to  us, — and  we  looked  at  each  other,  sorrowful  and  downcast. 

Herr  Selmont  touched  with  slight  condolence  upon  our  loss,  and  then  made  dif- 
ferent inquiries,  upon  subjects  concerning  which,  in  the  hope  of  his  installation,  he 
desired  precise  information.  He  soon  began  to  give  his  attention  again  to  our  dwell- 
ing,— a  disdainful  expression  played  round  his  mouth  as  he  measured  the  height  of  the 
room  and  the  windows.  I  saw  that  Martha  stood  upon  coals,  although  the  window- 
hangings  were  without  spot,  and  the  gilt  frames  of  our  family  pictures  cleaned  only 
yesterday.  "  Are  these  all  your  accommodations  ?"  asked  he,  casting  a  glance  towards 
the  open  door  of  the  next  room.  "  The  study  of  my  deceased  husband  is  at  present 
occupied  by  my  daughter  Anna,"  replied  my  mother.  "  Ah — then  permit  me  to  see 
that  also !"  returned  the  other,  and  hastened  to  the  door.     I  looked  in  consternation  at 

s 

our  mother,  who  actually  took  down  the  key,  and  accompanied  the  inquisitive  man  up 
stairs. 

While  I  looked  discontentedly  after  them,  Martha  expressed  her  distress  at  not 
having  prepared  more  than  two  dishes  for  the  evidently  dainty  guest.  The  sharp- 
sighted  girl  had  already  discovered  a  diamond  ring  on  his  hand,  and  insisted  that  his 
coat  was  much  finer  than  that  of  our  landlord.  Hence  she  argued  his  distinguished 
birth  and  brilliant  condition,  and  thought  no  one  could  tell  in  what  style  he  had  been 
accustomed  to  live.  While  we,  in  all  haste,  were  making  some  improved  prepara- 
tions for  dinner,  Herr  Selmont  returned  to  the  family  room.  "  It  must  be  granted  that 
ladies  understand  the  art  of  idealizing  the  most  common  place,"  said  he,  flatteringly, 
as  he  turned  to  me.  "  Who  under  a  thatched  roof  would  have  looked  for  a  boudoir, 
■where  all  the  Graces  and  Muses  are  domesticated .-'" 

He  then  began  to  speak  of  my  poor  flower-pieces,  of  my  books,  my  lute,  with  all 
manner  of  polite  phrases,  called  me  a  rural  Aspasia,  and  at  last  went  so  far  even  as  to 
compare  me  to  a  muse.  Gradually  his  soaring  thoughts  sunk  again  to  reality  and  our 
environs. 

"  Why  do  you  suffer  that  tree  under  your  window .'"  asked  he  quickly.  "  Were  I 
the  Apollo  of  your  temple,  this  neighbor,  excluding  all  light  and  life,  would  fall  my  first 
M  45 


THE    DIADEM. 

sacrifice!"  I  shrunk  back  at  these  words,  as  if  I  myself  had  been  the  one  threatened. 
I  already  in  fancy  saw  Herr  Selmont  lay  the  axe  to  the  stately  trunk,  saw  its  blooming 
top  bowed  in  the  dust,  and  the  happy,  warbling  inhabitants  of  its  boughs  flutter  mourn- 
fully around  it, — and  with  gloomy  feelings  turned  from  the  barbarous  man.  I  was  glad 
that  mother  just  then  asked  us  to  table.  I  had  time  to  struggle  with  my  anger,  and 
to  regard  his  speech  as  a  jest.  But  it  was,  as  I  saw  plainly,  quite  serious.  Not  the 
pear-tree  alone,  but  the  peaceful  parsonage  also  would  be  overthrown. 

Martha  scolded  me,  when  we  were  alone,  for  my  rudeness.  She  thought  I 
had  repaid  the  friendliness  of  my  neighbor  at  table  with  ingratitude,  and  he  had  at 
last  looked  down  on  his  plate  quite  out  of  humor.  I  know  not  how  far  I  deserved 
this  reproach,  but  flattery  is  hateful  to  me,  and  whoever  gives  me  only  flowers  and 
honey,  makes  me  a  bee,  and  lends  me  a  sting,  and  I  must  sting  without  wishing. 

May  4. — To-day  I  had  a  conversation  with  my  mother,  which  surprised  me. 

She  thinks  I  do  not  reflect  seriously  enough  upon  our  future,  and  she  may  be 
right.  I  am  spoiled  by  happiness,  and  imagine  things  will  always  weigh  as  lightly 
upon  me  as  in  the  years  of  childhood.  She  said,  only  some  unforeseen  good  for- 
tune could  preserve  us  from  the  most  oppressive  cares  ; — it  was,  therefore,  our  duty 
in  no  wise  to  oppose  higher  dispensations,  but  to  observe  with  diligence  every  sign 
from  heaven. 

Then  she  spoke  very  seriously  to  me  upon  the  duty  of  a  maiden  to  treat  every 
honorable  man  with  respectful  friendliness,  upon  the  disadvantages  of  an  over  hasty 
judgment  and  too  great  expectations,  and  closed  with  the  remark  that  few  ways  of 
happiness  stood  open  to  a  poor,  fatherless,  pastor's  daughter.  I  was  troubled  and 
disturbed.  The  thought  of  having  grieved  my  beloved  mother  by  my  conduct 
pained  me  deeply,  and  yet  I  knew  not  how  to  change  it ;  for  my  heart  vehe- 
mently opposed  her  wishes  and  views.  My  father  once  said  to  me — "  The  will  of  the 
Lord  reveals  itself  to  our  minds  by  decisive  circumstances."  I  preserved  this  lesson 
like  a  holy  thing  in  my  heart.  But  now  I  heard  not  its  faintest  voice,  and  God  knows 
how  carefully  I  listened  for  every  intimation,  and  how  I  neglected,  neither  the  conso- 
lation, nor  the  thousand-fold  call  to  joy,  which  every  flower,  every  little  creature,  has 
for  us.     I  hastened  into  the  garden. 

I  thought  with  all  earnestness,  upon  the  means  of  lightening  the  cares,  which 
weighed  upon  our  mother's  heart.  My  capabilities  were  examined  ;  a  strict  regula- 
tion of  my  time  was  determined  upon.  I  resolved  to  prepare  myself  for  an  assistant  in  a 
female  school ;  but  first  I  wished  to  complete  some  articles  of  work,  and  have  them 
sold  to  purchase  the  necessary  books ; — and  for  that  purpose  I  wrote  to  a  milliner. 
My  plans  made  me  more  cheerful.  I  prayed  God  for  his  assistance,  and  went  com- 
forted to  rest. 

May  10. — Madame  P has  answered  me.     She  has  kept  my  work,  but  valued 

it  at  a  mere  trifle.  Martha  thought  I  could  hardly  earn  salt  to  my  bread  by  it!  How 
imfortunate  are  we  poor  maidens!  With  all  our  fancied  abilities  we  must  at  last  give 
place  to  the  rough  day  laborer.  He  splits  wood;  is  useful,  and  earns  himself  bread; 
while  we  work  useless  things  and  waste  our  time  for  the  vain  wants  of  others. 

46 


THE    ROSE. 

May  11. — To-day  I  have  passed  a  happy  day.  Jane  Miiller  was  with  us.  She 
has  obtained  a  situation  with  my  Lady  Countess.  She  said,  her  skill  in  sewing  and 
knitting  alone  procured  It  for  her,  and  she  owed  her  happiness  to  my  instruction  alone. 
We  both  wept  for  joy,  when  she  added,  she  could  now  support  her  old  father,  and 
God  had  at  once  fulfilled  all  her  wishes.  I  could  sing  in  emulation  of  the  larks  and 
finches  ;  so  glad  has  the  news  of  Jenny  Miiller  made  me. 

May  12. — There  is  a  wonderful  consolation  for  the  heart  in  the  contemplation  of 
Nature.  I  have  long  watched  a  hedge-sparrow,  as,  in  the  shelter  of  a  gooseberry 
bush,  it  wove  together  its  little  nest  of  straw,  and  at  last  took  possession  of  it ;  some 
days  ago,  I  visited  the  dear  bird.  It  was  hatching,  and  not  far  off,  its  mate  sang  out 
from  the  boughs  its  pleasant  song.  When  the  dreadful  storm  arose  last  night,  and 
raged  on  with  ever  increasing  violence,  I  thought  anxiously  of  the  bird's  nest.  It  was 
built  on  such  feeble  twigs,  that  a  gust  of  wind  could  have  blown  it  down.  With  a 
sorrowful  heart  I  hastened  there  early  in  the  morning, — and  behold,  though  the  storm 
had  broken  several  boughs  from  our  fruit  trees  close  by,  the  nest  stood  unharmed, 
but  the  motherly  hedge-sparrow  spread  her  wings  still  closer  and  warmer  over  the 
young  brood,  while  her  mate  sang  out  a  song  of  jubilee,  and  soared  thankfully  up  to 
the  unclouded  sky.  "  Oh,  thou  Almighty!"  prayed  I  under  the  morning  heaven, 
"  Dost  thou  not  show  me  clearly  that  thou  guardest  those  most  carefully,  whom  we 
imagine  most  deserted !  The  props  of  our  happiness  are  also  frail,  and  many 
storms  threaten  our  poor  life  ;  but  as  thou  didst  shelter  and  protect  the  little  nest  in 
the  tempestuous  night — so  can'st  thou  preserve  us,  and  provide  us  a  refuge !" 

May  14. — What  a  strange  occurrence  ! 

To-day,  when  we,  as  usual,  were  reading  our  morning  prayer,  Herr  Marten,  who 
keeps  the  post-horses,  comes  with  a  face  full  of  anxiety,  and  begs  shelter  for  a  lady, 
who  was  taken  dangerously  ill  on  the  last  stage.  As  she  can  find  no  suitable  accom- 
modation in  his  house,  or  in  the  inn,  she  desires  to  come  to  the  parsonage,  and  relies 
upon  our  humanity,  as  a  continuation  of  her  journey  cannot  be  thought  of  in  her  con- 
dition. My  mother,  although  usually  prompt  in  any  similar  service,  seemed  doubtful 
for  some  moments,  and  inquired  the  nature  of  her  sickness.  Herr  Miirten  hesitated, 
and  only  replied,  he  thought  she  needed  immediate  aid. 

"  Docs  the  sick  lady  come  from  the  capital,  where  the  contagious  pestilence,  the 
cholera  has  broken  out  again  !"  asked  she.  He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  we  saw 
our  mother  turn  pale.  She  went  to  the  window  ; — gazed  thoughtfully  before  her  for  a 
while,  and  then  turned  to  us  with  a  long,  inquiring  look. 

"  We  should  not  abandon  our  suffering  sister,  especially  in  the  hour  of  dan- 
ger !"  said  she,  "  but  have  you  courage  to  meet  the  worst.'"  We  were  silent  some 
moments ;  the  seriousness  of  our  mother  had  sent  all  the  blood  from  our  cheeks.  I 
began  at  last,  animated  by  a  mighty  feeling,  to  intercede  for  the  sick. 

The  image  of  the  unknown  one,  so  needing  help,  so  deserted,  exposed  to  the 
most  threatening  danger,  stood  living  before  my  soul.  "  Let  her  come !"  I  cried, 
"  Perhaps  she   belongs   to   a  happy  family ;   perhaps  we  shall   save   the   life  of  a 

47 


THE    DIADEM. 

mother."  Martha,  inspired  with  the  same  feeling,  joined  in  with  me,  and  my  mother 
nodded  assentingly. 

Herr  Marten  bowed  very  respectfully  to  us,  and  hastened  out  to  give  the  neces- 
sary directions.  Martha  seized  the  keys,  while  I  prepared  to  arrange  the  bed.  "  One 
thing,"  began  my  mother,  beckoning  us  back — "  One  thing  I  stipulate  before  we 
enter  upon  the  work!  We  will  not  act  timidly,  but  prudently.  Neither  of  you 
must  approach  the  sick  lady,  but  I  alone.  Do  you  follow  conscientiously  what  I  shall 
prescribe." 

When  our  mother  said  this,  it  went  like  a  flash  of  lightning  through  our  limbs. 
"  Mother !"  cried  I  and  Martha,  with  one  voice — "  We  leave  thee  not !  Where 
thou  art,  we  will  be  also,  for  it  is  written  that  nothing  on  earth  happens  without 
God's  will ;  that  should  at  once  drive  all  faint-heartedness  away!" 

My  mother  looked  up  to  heaven,  then  folded  us  both  to  her  heart. 

All  was  now  activity  in  the  house.  Martha  prepared  tea  and  essences, — I  brought 
in  bed  coverings,  for  it  appeared  only  too  certain  to  us  all  that  it  was  the  dreaded  pesti- 
lence, which  was  to  enter  among  us  with  the  stranger.  Soon  the  sick  chamber  was 
prepared,  and  Martha  had  just  gone  through  the  house  with  a  perfuming  pan,  when 
the  sick  lady  was  borne  in  on  a  sofa. 

She  had  the  appearance  of  one  dead ;  her  eyes,  although  open,  stared  fixedly 
before  her  ;  her  mouth,  like  her  hands,  was  convulsively  closed.  We  bore  her  care- 
fully to  the  bed,  while  our  mother  rubbed  her  cold  limbs  with  warm  cloths.  Gradu- 
ally life  returned  to  the  torpid  pulse, — a  gentle  perspiration  broke  forth, — and  before 
an  hour  had  passed,  the  sick  lady  raised  herself  as  if  awakening  from  heavy  dreams. 
We  begged  her  not  to  change  her  position,  as  the  most  scrupulous  care  was  her  only 
safety.  With  wondering  looks  the  stranger  regarded  now  us  and  now  the  prepara- 
tions, which  lay  around  the  room.  "You  think  me  sick  of  the  cholera,"  asked  she 
at  last,  "  and  have  taken  me  in .'"  My  mother  answered  in  the  affirmative.  The 
lady  seemed  so  surprised  at  this  avowal,  that  it  was  long  before  she  could  find  words — 
"  God  has,  I  see,  led  me  among  good  people,"  continued  she,  "  but  it  is  well  that  I  can 
ease  your  minds  as  to  this  mistake.  Only  a  fit  of  the  cramp,  from  which  I  often  suffer, 
made  me  incapable  of  continuing  my  journey.  The  people  were  alarmed  at  my  sud- 
den illness,  and  delayed  giving  me  aid.  Your  humanity  received  me  in  spite  of  their 
apprehensions, — but  I  hope,  if  you  should  keep  me  a  few  hours  longer,  to  set  you 
entirely  at  ease  :  for  violent  as  was  this  attack,  it  will  quickly  pass  over."  At  these 
words  a  weight  was  taken  from  our  hearts.  "Not  hours,  no,  days,  we  beg  you  to 
remain  here!"  cried  Martha,  and  already  in  imagination  made  out  a  bill  of  fare,  to 
entertain  the  dear  unknown  guest  according  to  her  claims. 

My  mother  stood  before  the  stranger  with  clasped  hands — and  her  eyes  were  lit 
up  with  the  joy  of  having  passed  faithfully  through  the  hour  of  trial.  But  I  rejoiced 
in  anticipating  the  conversation  of  our  new  inmate,  for  that  she  was  from  court,  and 
was  of  a  distinguished  family  seemed  to  me  beyond  all  doubt.  Sometimes  there  occurred 
to  me  the  most  charming  stories  about  beneficent  fairies  and  enchanted  princesses,  and 

48 


THE    ROSE. 

I  felt  that  there  must  be  some  strange  mystery  behind  the  traveller,  to  whose  unravel- 
ment  I  looked  forward  with  secret  curiosity. 

May  16. — We  know  now  who  the  strange  lady  is,  whom  chance  has  led 
among  us.  Her  name  is  Madame  Waiting,  and  she  is  the  wife  of  a  councillor  of 
commerce,  who  has  a  beautiful  estate  in  the  neighbourhood  of  a  pleasant  commercial 
town.  Though  this  accords  little  with  my  fanciful  conceptions,  yet  the  brilliant  life 
that  is  led  in  the  house  of  the  councillor,  of  which  Madame  Waiting  has  told  us  a  great 
deal,  may  well  be  a  kind  of  magic  world  when  compared  with  our  solitude. 

How  Martha  stared,  when  she  accidentally  heard  of  the  sums  which  were  con- 
sumed there  almost  daily.  She  pledged  herself  to  keep  house  thereon  for  a  whole 
month.  Lady  Waiting  smiled,  and  said,  if  we  understood  that  art,  she  must  beg  for 
one  of  us  girls  as  housekeeper. 

Martha  looked  pleased,  and  now  meditates  displaying  in  succession  all  her  fine 
master-pieces  of  cookery.  Distinguished  ladies  are  dainty,  and  Lady  Waiting  is 
still  a  half  patient.  For,  although  the  cramp  is  entirely  gone,  her  strength  returns  but 
slowly.  To-day  I  also  had  to  go  through  an  examination  upon  household  affairs.  I 
secretly  thanked  sister  Martha,  who  exhorts  me  to  all  useful  things,  and  was  as  rejoiced 
at  the  good  issue  of  my  trial  as  a  happy  scholar,  who  is  dismissed  from  the  school 
with  No.  1. 

May  17. — What  a  new  life  opens  to  me !  I  am  to  accompany  Lady  Waiting  home. 
She  says,  in  some  days  she  expects  her  only  daughter  back  from  the  capital,  where 
she  has  been  educated  at  a  boarding-school — Aurora,  so  she  is  called,  is  of  my  age. 
In  the  beginning  I  thought  it  was  Lady  Waiting's  plan  to  employ  me  as  housekeeper, 
and  I  expressed  my  apprehensions  at  the  prospect  of  superintending  so  large  a  house- 
hold,— but  she  smiled  and  said,  that  was  already  provided  for, — that  she  should  prefer 
to  see  me  at  the  harpsichord,  and  wished  me  to  pursue  occupations  of  this  kind 
with  Aurora.  Really,  I  scarce  know  how  I  deserve  such  great  happiness !  At  first  I 
was  troubled  at  the  thought  of  leaving  my  beloved  mother  ; — but  when  I  saw  that  she 
herself  was  pleased  at  the  proposal,  and  thought  it  would  be  of  great  use  for  me  to  see 
a  little  about  me  in  the  world, — then  I  gave  way  to  my  joy,  and  bounded  out  to  tell 
the  event  to  the  whole  little  world  around  us. 

I  feared  Martha  would  be  vexed  at  the  preference  which  was  shown  me,  and  I 
approached  her  in  my  happiness  rather  shyly — but  she  is  far  nobler  than  I,  for 
scarcely  had  she  heard  of  ray  determination,  when  she  brought  me  her  new  cloak, 
which  she  can  hardly  spare — and  then  the  light  blue  shawl  which  she  wears  only  to 
church,  and  begged  me  to  take  all  with  me  on  the  journey.  With  difficulty  could  I 
refuse  the  first.     The  last  I  was  forced  to  take  if  I  would  not  make  her  sad. 

May  19. — The  heavy  hour  of  parting  is  over.  My  beloved  father's  house  lies 
distant,  and  my  looks  and  greetings  can  no  more  meet  my  dearest  mother,  my  beloved 
sister.  I  write  these  lines  upon  the  way,  while  Lady  Walling  rests  a  little.  We  have 
made  a  charming  journey.     I  saw  the  stately  Cassel,  and  the  renowned  Wilhelmshohe. 

I  must  record  one  especially  mighty  impression.     We  had  just  viewed  all  the 
N  49 


THE    DIADEM. 

wonders  of  this  fairy  world,  and  were  resting  under  the  shade  of  a  noble  group  of  trees, 
when  suddenly  there  shot  up  from  the  darkness  of  the  opposite  bushes  a  silver  beam, 
which  swelling  up  ever  higher  and  broader  resembled  a  gigantic  crystal  column,  and 
threw  its  pearly  foam  up  even  to  the  very  tree-tops.     It  was  a  fountain. 

I  had  never  seen  a  similar  appearance.  I  thought  I  saw  the  Spirit  of  Nature 
rise  up  before  me  wrapped  in  his  mysterious  veil.  The  ancient  trees  bowed  reve- 
rently, touched  by  his  rays.  There  went  a  murmuring — a  rustling  through  the  boughs, 
like  the  whispering  of  prayer.  I  wept,  and,  inspired  by  the  sublimity  of  the  moment, 
could  have  sunk  on  my  knees  in  adoration  and  ecstasy. 

Lady  Waiting,  who  saw  my  agitation,  smiled  a  Jittle, — but  soon  said  kindly,  it 
was  quite  reviving  to  meet  so  fresh  a  nature.  Ah,  that  mother  and  Martha  were  so 
far  away ! 

May  23. — We  have  arrived  safely  at  Lindenruh.  God  bless  the  entrance  into 
my  new  home  !  Many  things  of  course  will  appear  strange  at  first,  but  I  will  be  of 
good  courage,  and  not  let  myself  be  governed  too  much  by  new  impressions.  In  fact 
Lady  Waiting  has  told  me  much  too  little  of  the  splendor  of  her  house.  Martha  pro- 
phesied great  riches ;  but  that  I  should  dwell  in  a  stately  castle,  and  sleep  in  a  room 
with  velvet  hangings,  that  certainly  none  of  us  thought. 

The  room  assigned  to  me  lies  close  to  the  hall,  that  leads  to  a  balcony,  from 
which  one  overlooks  a  rich  plain,  inclosed  by  a  picturesque  mountain  chain.  Spa- 
cious gardens  lie  round  about  the  dwelling,  and  a  beautiful  linden  walk  leads  directly 
to  an  elegant  villa  opposite,  which  belongs  to  a  noble  countess,  whose  son  is  shortly 
expected  home. 

The  bustling  life  around  me  here,  the  many  servants  who  wait  upon  me,  threw 
me  at  first  into  embarrassment  and  perplexity.  It  was  the  same  at  table,  where 
profusion  reigns.  I  cannot  help  thinking  of  Martha  then.  It  was  well  that  we 
went  so  unconstrainedly  to  work.  If  we  had  known  before-hand  the  great  distance 
between  us,  we  should  scarcely  have  had  courage  to  entertain  Lady  Waiting.  The 
councillor,  who  treated  me  from  the  first^with  great  kindness,  is  a  stately  man  of 
engaging  manners. 

He  wishes  me  to  sit  beside  him  at  table,  and  takes  pleasure  in  my  chat.  He  is 
fond  of  a  jest,  and  says,  he  has  been  long  in  want  of  a  Hebe,  who  should  not  only 
fill  his  cup  but  sweeten  it  too. 

Only  let  Aurora  come,  she  will  offer  him  a  better  nectar.  I  stand  somewhat  in 
awe  of  her  high  refinement.  The  poor  country  girl  will  of  course  suffer  by  the  con- 
trast ;  but  in  good  will,  and  a  cheerful  mind  she  shall  not  outdo  me,  and  our  love,  I 
hope,  will  compensate  for  the  rest.  The  boys,  for  Lady  Waiting  has  three  sons,  and 
right  wild  ones  too,  regarded  me  at  first  as  some  strange  being.  But  when  I  taught 
them  all  kinds  of  games,  and  offered  to  show  them  their  lessons  until  the  return  of 
their  teacher,  we  became  great  cronies.  They  talk  much  about  a  Mr.  Gotthold, 
who  gives  them  lessons,  but  is  at  present  travelling  with  the  young  count  in  Switzer- 
land. 

50 


THE    ROSE. 

I  shall  become  acquainted  with  many  people  in  this  house.  May  they  all  be 
only  as  indulgent  and  friendly  to  me  as  the  good  councillor,  who  always  has  a  kind 
look  for  me,  and  a  pretty  anecdote,  and  some  bonbons  from  town. 

May  28. — Aurora  is  come.  She  is  slender  and  beautiful,  and  has  the  bearing  of 
a  princess.  She  naturally  looked  upon  me  rather  proudly  at  first, — but  when  the 
councillor  called  me  his  second  daughter,  and  she  learned  that  her  mother  had  been 
at  our  parsonage,  she  became  more  friendly,  and  gave  me  proofs  of  her  confidence. 

We  both  occupy  a  wing  of  the  castle,  and  our  rooms  are  only  separated  by  the 
hall,  where  we  often  meet,  because  there  stands  the  piano,  on  which  Aurora  plays 
brilliantly.  She  was  glad  when  she  heard  that  I  too  love  music,  and  built  great 
plans  upon  it.  I  am  to  accompany  her  cavatinas,  and  also  the  duetts,  which  she 
means  afterwards  to  sing  with  the  young  count.  How  much  I  thank  my  blessed  father 
for  the  instruction  which  he  bestowed  on  me !  It  is  of  great  use  to  me  that  I  can  play 
a  little  at  sight,  and  thus  become  agreeable  to  Aurora.  Here  especially,  they  set  great 
value  on  such  skill,  and  Martha  wjll  have  to  acknowledge  that  the  beautiful  can  often 
be  useful. 

The  rest  of  my  knowledge  certainly  looks  deficient  beside  Aurora's  learning. 
How  much  is  required  now-a-days  from  a  well  educated  girl!  When  I  think  of  it, 
I  scarcely  know  when  time  is  left  to  girls  to  reflect  upon  themselves,  and  upon  life 
and  God.  This  morning,  when  I  asked  Aurora  whether  we  should  enjoy  the  early 
hours  together,  and  perform  our  morning  devotions  in  the  garden,  she  looked  quite 
astonished,  and  said  :  she  really  had  no  time  to  spare,  because  every  hour  was  fixed 
for  some  particular  study,  and  she  must  keep  to  that  order  for  fear  of  going  back. 
She  then  counted  on  her  fingers  all  that  she  had  to  do,  and  really  every  hour  had  its 
work.  There  was  French,  English,  Italian,  Mythology  and  History.  The  afternoon 
was  also  all  taken  up ;  for  then  there  were  articles  of  work  for  aunts,  cousins  and 
friends.  It  is  now  the  fashion  to  cover  everything  with  embroidery,  even  the  most 
insignificant  objects,  such  as  brushes  and  baskets,  strange  as  it  sounds. 

Indeed  one  might  question,  how  with  two  eyes  and  two  hands  this  endless  chain 
of  ever  returning  wants  is  supplied,  and  how  the  poor  head  can  hold  out,  which 
would  gladly  think  sometimes  of  higher  things,  and  use  its  own  powers.  As  every 
one  in  the  house  rises  late,  I  am  quite  alone  the  first  part  of  the  day.  I  can  now 
remain  true  to  the  custom,  which  my  pious  father  made  a  duty  with  me, — namely,  to 
devote  an  hour  of  the  morning  to  reading  the  Holy  Scriptures,  or  some  other  instruc- 
tive book.  This,  he  said,  tuned  the  soul  to  the  right  tone,  and  then  one  could  meet 
the  occurrences  of  the  day  with  less  danger.  How  beautiful  is  the  morning  in  the  gar- 
den of  Lindenruh ! 

June  2. — Our  life  becomes  daily  more  bustling.  The  young  count  is  arrived. 
To-day  the  councillor  gave  a  brilliant  fete  in  his  honor.  What  a  surprise,  when  this 
morning  I  found  in  my  room  the  most  charming  dress  of  rose-colored  mousseline, 
which  good  Madame  Waiting  presented  to  me  for  this  day's  fete. 

When  I  entered  the  visiting  room,  I  had  to  pass  the  great  mirror.     I  stood  still 

51 


THE    DIADEM. 

a  moment,  and  looked  with  pleasure  at  my  figure.  Vanity  had  almost  stolen  in  upon 
me,  but  I  hastened  rapidly  by,  and  thanked  God  that  such  snares  do  not  meet  me 
every  day. 

Towards  noon  the  guests  appeared.  I  was  now  introduced  to  the  gracious  Lady 
Countess.  She  has  often  been  here  before,  but  I  always  kept  away,  because  she  pre- 
fers speaking  French  to  German,  and  I  foresaw  that  with  her  I  should  speak  even  the 
last  timidly.  Indeed,  her  extreme  hauteur  had  a  great  influence  on  me.  I  blushed 
before  her  scrutinizing  looks,  and  with  difficulty  stammered  out  answers  to  her  ques- 
tions. When  she  released  me,  I  felt  like  a  butterfly  which  has  been  held  by  the 
wings  for  a  time,  and  is  then  cast  into  the  air.  I  hastened  to  the  children  and  kept 
with  them  until  the  councillor  called  me  to  his  side. 

The  table  was  richly  set  out ;  to  me  there  seemed  great  waste  here,  for  many  poor 
families  could  have  lived  for  weeks  on  the  remains.  After  dinner  they  set  about  all 
kinds  of  amusements. 

While  the  elder  young  people  danced  in  the  hall,  the  children  went  into  the  gar- 
den ;  I  joined  them  to  regulate  their  games. 

But  thereby  hangs  a  tale,  which  I  will  give  here  as  a  jest. 

Count  Ferdinand — of  whom  Aurora  has  told  me  a  great  deal,  because  he  was 
her  play-fellow  in  childhood,  and  is,  as  I  suppose,  intended  for  her  bridegroom,  had 
just  led  one  of  the  young  ladies  to  the  dance,  when  I  left  the  hall  with  the  children. 
We  had  played  some  time  in  the  garden  ;  had  collected  pawns,  and  it  had  just  fallen 
to  ray  lot  to  stand  on  the  broad  stone.  Fritz,  my  darling,  bound  my  eyes  and  secretly 
promised  to  fetch  me  away.     Now  I  began  my  verse — 

"  Here  on  the  broad  stone  must  I  f^tay, 
He  who  loves  me,  come  take  me  away  !" 

Then  some  one  kissed  me,  and  a  joyful  shout  of  laughter  resounded. 

"  That  is  Fritz!"  cried  I,  and  struck  my  prisoner  soundly  on  the  shoulder. 

The  bandage  dropped,  and  who  can  describe  my  horror,  it  was  the  young  count, 
who  had  joined  with  Aurora  in  the  game,  and,  at  the  instigation  of  the  mischievous 
girl,  had  taken  the  kiss.  At  first  I  must  have  looked  somewhat  dark,  for  I  was  shocked, 
and  the  jest  was  unwarrantable.  But  when  I  saw  how  timid  and  embarrassed  the 
poor  count  looked,  and  laid  all  the  blame  on  Aurora — I  had  to  laugh  with  the  rest, 
and  the  count  joined  in. 

When  we  went  into  the  hall,  he  had  the  goodness  to  ask  me  to  dance.  I  knew 
no  one  who  danced  lighter  than  the  count.  I  skipped  as  if  I  had  spring  soles  under 
ray  feet,  and  was  right  glad  at  heart. 

At  bed-time  I  felt  excited  by  all  I  had  seen  and  heard,  and  could  with  difficulty 
collect  my  thoughts  for  quiet  meditation.  The  gay  scenes  of  the  day  mingled  even  in 
my  evening  prayer,  and  I  felt  troubled  at  the  influence  of  such  pleasures  over  my  weak 
mind.  How  can  it  fare  with  the  poor  maidens  who  plunge  daily  in  such  dissipations  .^ 
I  will  take  heed,  and  for  the  future  watch  earnestly  over  myself. 

52 


THE    ROSE. 

June  6. — Our  circle  daily  increases.  To-day  arrived  Lady  Schlicht,  an  elderly 
relative  of  the  family.  She  and  the  countess  were  Aurora's  godmothers,  and  they 
both  talked  a  good  deal  about  education  to-day,  from  which  I  learnt  that  Aurora  had 
been  sent  to  that  great  city  boarding-school  by  the  advice  of  the  countess,  much  against 
Lady  Schlicht's  inclination.  Lady  Schlicht  made  many  observations,  which  seemed 
to  me  very  sensible  and  correct,  but  I  hardly  understood  the  countess,  who  talked 
a  great  deal  about  presentations,  hon  ton  and  savoir  vivre.  It  seems  that  the  countess 
sets  more  value  on  the  art  of  shining,  than  of  making  happy  and  being  happy,  while 
Lady  Schlicht,  in  her  simple  manner,  cares  only  for  the  latter.  Aurora  was  not 
present  at  this  conversation, — when  she  entered  the  countess  celebrated  a  kind  of 
triumph,  and  in  French  softly  praised  her  grace,  her  walk,  her  carriage.  Lady 
Schlicht  smiled  and  pressed  Aurora's  hand.  She  afterwards  questioned  her  upon 
some  subjects  of  female  knowledge,  but  she  stood  the  trial  very  imperfectly.  When 
I  was  alone  with  Aurora,  she  spoke  quite  contemptuously  of  the  antiquated  notions 
and  low-bred  manners  of  her  godmother.  She  called  her  a  female  misanthrope,  who 
only  lived  to  hoard  dead  treasures,  who  was  opposed  to  all  merry  company,  and 
even  lived  apart  from  her  daughter,  that  she  might  remain  true  to  her  narrow-minded 
customs,  while  her  son-in-law  the  farmer  with  his  large  family  needed  the  support  of  a 
mother.  When  she  speaks  to  Lady  Schlicht,  however,  she  seems  to  try  to  show 
her  all  respect.     I  think  one  cannot  but  be  respectful  towards  this  estimable  old  lady. 

June  12. — What  a  strange  mistake  !  I  know  not  why  I  imagined  Mr.  Gotthold 
quite  old  and  with  a  wig.  I  was  quite  startled  when  he  entered,  fair-haired,  with  a 
frank,  open  forehead,  and  dark  thoughtful  eyes. 

From  the  countess  down  to  the  children — all  showed  him  esteem  and  love.  The 
latter  with  exultation  took  advantage  of  their  old  privileges,  and  surrounded  the 
wishcd-for  guest,  hung  on  his  knees,  and  listened  to  his  narrations.  I  also,  like  a 
child,  could  hear  and  gaze  forever,  and  find  my  highest  joy  in  preserving  his  words  in 
my  heart. 

What  a  strange  magic  God  has  put  in  some  looks,  some  voices!  When  he 
looked  at  me,  and  spoke  to  me,  it  was  as  if  he  had  the  key  to  the  most  hidden  recesses 
of  my  heart.     Had  he  wished,  I  could  have  told  him  every  thing! 

Count  Ferdinand  near  him  seems  changed.  You  see  he  strives  to  imitate  his 
noble  friend.  More  serious,  more  collected,  more  thoughtful,  he  speaks  less  than  he 
listens.  But  how  Mr.  Gotthold  narrates !  Never  did  words  bring  so  clearly  before 
me  the  sublime  scenes  of  nature. 

The  councillor's  wife  smiled  yesterday,  when  I  drew  my  chair  next  to  Mr. 
Gotthold,  and  the  countess  cast  a  side  glance  at  me,  as  if  I  had  been  guilty  of  some 
impropriety. 

To-day,  to  my  joy,  Mr.  Gotthold  drew  his  chair  next  mine,  and  then  no  one 
could  smile,  for  his  look  commands  respect. 

June  14. — I  went  to  town  with  Lady  Schlicht  to-day  to  attend  divine  worship.    How 
I  was  amazed  at  the  splendor  and  riches  of  the  stately  buildings,  among  which  we 
o  53 


THE    DIADEM. 

passed.  When  I  entered  the  church  a  thrill  ran  through  me.  It  seemed  that  I  was 
entering  our  old  beach-wood,  when  the  moon  glimmers  through  the  loftily  arched, 
thickly  interlacing  boughs.  The  majestic  columns  branched  upward  like  an  avenue  of 
trees.  Their  slender  arms  were  lost  in  the  dusty  height,  and  the  eye  could  scarce 
follow  them  without  a  holy  awe. 

Lady  Schlicht  called  this  a  gothic  building;  I  could  have  called  it  ^  godly  one. 
All  that  I  saw, — the  finely  pointed  arches,  the  glittering  ornaments  seemed  each  to 
point  upwards  with  gentle  earnest  signs.  The  sermon  that  we  heard,  was  in  harmony 
with  the  sublime  temple  which  surrounded  us.  A  venerable  old  man  delivered  it. 
He  spoke  of  the  freedom  of  the  children  of  God,  of  love  as  the  fulfilment  of  the  law, 
and  of  him,  the  divine  Saviour,  from  whom  this  heavenly  life  beams  forth  in  full 
majesty. 

Oh,  how  my  heart  rejoiced  when  he  spoke  of  the  faithful,  who  adhere  to  him, 
and  who  renewed  by  his  spirit  live  in  communion  with  him.  With  what  inspiration 
he  sketched  that  lovely  picture  full  of  humility,  love,  truth  and  goodness,  illuminated 
by  peace  and  joy  !  When  I  went  home,  I  tried  to  compare  those  who  had  appeared 
upon  the  little  stage  of  my  existence,  with  that  beautiful  picture. 

Oh,  my  good,  pious  father,  and  thou,  my  mother,  with  thy  calm  contented,  always 
loving  heart,  how  nobly  did  your  images  bear  the  test!  And  Mr.  Gotthold,  he  too 
stood  the  ordeal ;  yes,  it  seemed  that  I  only  now  clearly  and  distinctly  perceived  his 
silent,  elevated  worth. 

June  16. — How  delightfully  the  saying  was  fulfilled  to-day,  which  my  father 
■wrote  in  my  diary.  With  tears  I  began  this  day,  for  I  felt  it  hard  to  renounce  an 
expected  pleasure,  and  into  what  great  joy  my  sorrow  has  changed !  For  some  days 
a  party  has  been  planned  to  visit  the  castle  of  the  prince.  Count  Ferdinand  had 
begged  to  be  allowed  to  drive  Aurora  and  me,  and  promised  himself  much  pleasure 
from  the  fete.  To-day  Madame  Waiting  told  me  that  the  indisposition  of  Lady 
Schlicht  made  it  necessary  for  one  of  us  to  keep  her  company  in  her  sick  room.  No 
choice  was  left  me.  I  put  back  my  festive  attire,  and  silently  repaired  to  Lady 
Schlicht  who  was  sitting  alone  with  her  books.  While  the  shining  equipages  rolled 
past  our  windows,  Lady  Schlicht  beckoned  me  to  sit  by  her  arm-chair.  "  They  have 
kept  you  here  against  my  will,"  said  she  kindly — "  I  know  not  why  they  deprived 
you  of  this  pleasure.  At  your  age  one  is  little  used  to  disappointments  and  I 
am  accustomed  to  solitude.  But  as  it  is  so  ordained,"  continued  she  gaily,  "  we 
must  mutually  console  and  amuse  each  other !"  The  good  lady  began  in  earnest  to 
converse  with  me  in  the  most  friendly  manner,  and  seemed  to  exert  herself  to  forget 
her  suffering  condition.  I  fulfilled  my  office  with  real  love,  studied  her  comfort 
as  much  as  I  could,  and  was  greatly  cheered  by  the  friendliness  with  which  she 
repaid  my  poor  endeavors.  I  told  her  much  about  my  beloved  parents  and  our 
very  quiet  life  in  the  parsonage.  Lady  Schlicht  was  delighted  when  I  spoke  of 
Martha's  frugal,  economical  management.  She  said,  she  had  a  thousand  times  more 
pleasure  in  the  description  of  such  a  household  as  ours,  than  in  the  most  brilliant  fes- 

54 


THE    ROSE. 

tival,  where  vanity  is  always  the  idol  to  which  homage  is  paid.  When  we  had 
chatted  together  quite  familiarly  for  some  hours,  Fritz  knocked  gently  at  the  door,  and 
begged  me  to  take  a  walk  with  him  and  his  brothers  to  the  lake.  Lady  Schlicht 
urged  me  to  comply  with  the  children's  request,  and  go  into  the  fresh  air  a  little.  I 
consented  the  more  readily,  as  from  that  spot  could  be  seen  the  forest  castle,  to 
which  my  thoughts  wandered  oftener  than  I  would  confess.  As  evening  was  approach- 
ing, we  took  our  meal  with  us.  The  children  trotted  merrily  on  before  me,  laden 
with  baskets  and  a  many  colored  kite,  while  I  followed  slowly  enjoying  the  glorious 
evening.  When  I  came  to  the  lake,  I  was  surprised  at  the  loveliness  and  charm  of 
the  spot.  I  seated  myself  on  the  declivity  of  a  little  hill,  which  looked  towards  the 
distant  forest,  where  the  castle,  gilded  by  the  evening  sun,  shone  out  on  the  border  of 
the  lake.  Involuntarily  I  thought  of  Mr.  Gotthold.  Ah,  it  was  not  the  bustling  circle, 
but  his  friendly  words  that  I  missed  so  painfully.  The  children  meanwhile  had  let 
fly  their  kite,  and  now  bounded  exultingly  over  the  wide  meadow.  When  I  rose  to 
follow  their  steps,  I  observed  two  boys  lower  down  the  hill,  who,  heavily  laden  wilh 
wood,  had  seated  themselves  on  a  rock,  and  with  quiet  serious  faces  looked  on  at  the 
happy  play  of  the  children. 

There  was  something  quite  touching, in  their  appearance.  They  each  wore 
a  wreath  of  blue  bells,  which  heightened  the  beauty  of  their  fine  faces,  and  long, 
curling  hair,  while  their  wretched,  coarse  clothing  betrayed  the  greatest  poverty. 

Resting  side  by  side,  from  the  burden  and  heat  of  the  day,  illuminated  by  the 
evening  light,  their  eyes  fixed  sadly  on  the  happy  children,  they  resembled  the  angels 
of  Patience,  or  the  Spirits  of  Concord,  who  endure  a  hard  lot  more  easily  when  closely 
united.  I  couUl  not  forbear  approacliing  the  boys.  They  bowed  when  they  saw  me, 
but  they  did  not  stop  looking  at  the  children.  "  Will  you  not  lay  down  your  bur- 
dens awhile,  and  be  happy  with  the  happy  ?"  asked  I.  The  elder  shook  his  head  and 
looked  sadly  on  the  ground.  "  Are  you  taking  this  wood  to  your  parents.'"  asked  I 
again.  "  We  have  only  a  mother,"  replied  the  younger,  "  and  she  is  sick."  Both 
rose  hastily,  as  if  admonished  by  these  words.  They  were  just  going  down  the  hill, 
when  my  little  ones  who  had  observed  our  conversation  came  up,  and  regarded  not 
without  astonishment  the  pretty  boys  and  their  wreaths.  Fritz  took  out  his  bread 
and  butter  to  offer  to  them.  All  crowded  round  them ;  they  could  scarcely  answer  the 
questions  which  were  put  to  them.  At  last  I  begged  that  the  heavily  laden  boys 
should  be  kept  no  longer,  and  to  make  amends,  proposed  that  we  should  follow  the 
poor  children  at  some  distance  and  carry  the  provision  basket  to  their  cottage.  Such 
wishes  always  find  a  ready  assent  in  young  hearts.  The  evening  pleasures,  even 
the  kite  was  sacrificed  with  joy,  and  we  set  quickly  out  on  our  way.  We  reached  the 
hut  without  being  perceived  by  the  boys. — I  entered  at  the  open  door. 

Good  God,  what  a  picture  of  misery!  A  woman,  pale  and  wasted,  lay  on  a 
wretched  bed  of  straw,  and  beside  her  were  two  weeping  children,  while  the  elder 
boys  sat  beside  the  hearth  kindling  the  extinguished  fire.  The  latter  recognized  me, 
and  a  happy  smile  passed  over  their  faces.  I  stepped  softly  up  to  the  sick  woman, 
and  told  her  what  brought  me  there. 

55 


THE    DIADEM. 

She  clasped  her  hands,  and  whispered  softly  :  "  Then  God  a  second  time  sends 
me  his  angel !"  and  her  eyes  overflowed  with  silent  tears.  The  boys  now  told  me  in 
answer  to  my  questions,  that  their  father  had  been  a  weaver,  and  that  after  his  death 
they  had  continued  the  business.  Most  pressing  want  had  compelled  them  to  pledge 
their  loom  to  procure  aid  for  their  sick  mother,  and  now  they  would  have  been  wholly 
without  means,  if  a  strange  gentleman  had  not  seen  them  and  given  them  money. 
During  this  conversation  the  door  opened,  and — who  can  describe  my  astonishment 
when  I  perceived  Mr.  Gotthold,  him  whom  I  had  supposed  with  the  company,  for 
whose  sake  alone  it  had  been  so  hard  for  me  to  renounce  the  fete.  He  also  was 
extremely  surprised,  and  made  a  movement  to  withdraw;  but  the  children  had 
already  perceived  him,  and  drew  him  into  the  midst  of  us.  "  It  is  a  strange  chance 
that  we  should  meet  in  this  poor  hut  instead  of  the  castle  of  the  prince !"  said  he,  bow- 
ing pleasantly  to  me.  I  could  scarcely  conceal  my  joy.  JNIr.  Gotthold  turned  sympa- 
thizingly  to  the  sick  woman  and  asked  after  her  health.  When  she,  recognizing  her 
benefactor,  tried  to  express  her  full,  thankful  heart,  he  became  visibly  embarrassed, 
but  more  so  when  after  some  moments  the  well  known  loom  was  brought  out,  which 
he  had  redeemed  by  discharging  their  little  debt.  I  perceived  how  unwillingly  he 
saw  his  silent  work  of  charity  betrayed,  an^liow,  reddening,  he  avoided  all  thanks.  He 
begged  me  to  use  my  intercessions  with  the  councillor  that  this  family  might  receive 
work  again.  The  boys  promised  with  evident  joy  that  they  would  be  very  industrious, 
and  the  sick  woman  declared  that  with  the  fulfilment  of  this  request  all  their  cares 
would  be  relieved.  I  undertook  this  commission  with  pleasure,  and  at  the  same  time 
promised  her  all  necessary  restoratives  in  the  name  of  Lady  Waiting. 

But  I  myself  resolved  to  visit  the  poor  woman  early  every  morning,  and  see  that 
she  was  nursed  and  restored  to  health. 

Our  way  home  led  through  the  park.  Mr.  Gotthold  accompanied  us.  I  had  the 
courage  to  tell  him  many  things. 

I  described  our  world  at  home,  and  spoke  of  my  dear  mother  and  Martha.  The 
thatched  roof  and  the  pear-tree,  and  candidate  Sclmont  and  his  predecessor  were  all 
remembered.  Mr.  Gotthold  listened  attentively,  and  often  by  sympathizing  questions 
encouraged  my  communications.  When  I  spoke  of  my  beloved  father,  and  the  noble, 
calm  pleasures  we  enjoyed  with  him,  and  the  simple  peaceful  happiness  he  taught  us 
to  love,  his  eyes  became  moist  like  mine,  and  he  took  my  hand  and  said,  "  It  is  the  choice 
blessing  of  good  men  that  their  words,  their  spirits  outlive  this  short  life  ;  that  we  can 
find  them  again  in  their  works  and  may  still  love  them  in  these!"  We  walked  on 
together  silently  for  a  while.  The  evening  air  rustled  through  the  lofty  trees  above 
us,  and  wafted  fragrance  from  the  near  acacia  bushes.  We  wandered  as  in  a  dome 
whose  lofty  vault  reflected  the  ruddy  light  of  the  sinking  sun.  All  was  serious,  still, 
solemn  around  us ;  the  children  had  hastened  on  before  us ;  we  were  alone  in  the 
blooming  creation.  We  came  to  a  bed  of  flowers.  A  rose  bush  stood  in  the  midst ; 
a  beautiful,  half  open  bud  bent  towards  us.  It  was  the  first  of  the  year.  A  joyful 
sound  escaped  my  lips ;  never  had  a  rose  appeared  to  me  more  beautiful ;  never  had  its 

56 


'tvv^' 


THE    ROSE. 

appearance  so  enraptured  me.  Mr.  Gotthold  confessed  the  same.  Like  two  happy 
chiklren  we  stood  hand  in  hand,  before  the  lovely  blooming  flower,  and  tasted  its  fra- 
grance, and  breathed  all  the  raptures  of  spring.  A  nightingale  sang  out  from  the 
neighboring  hedge.  It  was  as  if  the  rose  had  acquired  speech,  and  was  intelli- 
gible to  our  hearts.  Gotthold  bent  quickly  down,  broke  it  and  oflered  it  to  me, 
ah !  with  a  look  which  I  shall  never  forget ! 

He  said  he  had  himself  planted  this  rose  bush,  and  its  first  blossom  was  not  with- 
out significance  to  him.  My  hand  trembled  as  I  took  the  rose.  I  felt  as  if  Gotthold 
at  that  moment  had  placed  a  ring  on  my  finger.  I  tried  to  thank  him,  but  found  no 
words.     I  only  looked  up  at  him,  but  I  feared  my  whole  heart  lay  in  my  eyes. 

He  raised  his  arm  as  if  in  joyful  inspiration,  and  I  looked  up  to  heaven  with  inex- 
pressible emotion.  Solemnly  as  after  a  silent  vow,  we  continued  our  way  home.  I 
felt  as  if  we  had  bound  ourselves  for  our  whole  life,  as  if  nothing,  nothing  could  sepa- 
rate our  souls. 

When  in  my  own  room  I  poured  out  my  full  heart  before  God.  The  starry  hea- 
vens looked  down  on  me.  I  threw  myself  on  my  knees  and  prayed  softly,  "  Oh 
Lord,  make  me  worthy  of  a  happiness  which  thou  hast  given  me  so  undeservedly,  so 
unexpectedly !" 

June  17. — This  morning  I  found  Aurora  and  the  rest  of  the  company  in  the  break- 
fast room.  She  spoke  with  animation  of  yesterday's  fete,  of  the  splendor  of  those 
present,  of  the  attention  which  she  enjoyed.  She  did  not  seem  satisfied  with  Count 
Ferdinand,  and  thought  he  was  inclined  to  jealousy,  which  she  could  not  endure, 
and  in  jest  pledged  herself  to  cure  him.  I  learned  that  he  had  not  danced  all  the 
evening,  but  had  wandered  about  the  wood  lost  in  melancholy  thought. 

Yet  Aurora,  as  she  said,  had  amused  herself  extremely,  and  in  fact  I  know  not 
whether  she  loves  the  count  or  no,  for  she  is  so  indifferent  to  his  humor,  and  cares 
not  to  please  only  him,  but  other  men  too.  When  she  afterwards  accompanied  me 
to  my  room,  I  felt  an  indescribable  longing  to  open  my  heart  to  her. 

I  stood  with  her  beside  the  table  where  lay  my  jewel,  the  beloved  rose.  I  wished 
to  fell  her  the  adventures  of  the  whole  day — then,  as  it  were,  an  angel  entered  my 
heart  and  spread  its  wings  over  it.  I  led  Aurora  quickly  away  and  my  mystery  was 
saved.     How  good  is  it,  that  God  has  given  our  hearts  a  warning,  guardian  spirit! 

June  24. — I  have  lived  a  succession  of  precious  days!  No  one  knows  and  sees 
my  happiness !  Silently  it  blooms  in  the  guardianship  of  heaven,  to  heaven  alone  com- 
mended, confided.  Aurora  to-day  said  jestingly,  I  had  the  face  of  a  rose  and  like  it 
bloomed  every  day  fresher  and  brighter.  I  know  not  how  she  meant  it, — but  in  my 
heart  I  am  happier  and  perhaps  better,  for  what  can  more  ennoble  us  than  to  compare 
our  thoughts  with  those  of  an  excellent  man,  to  examine  our  course  of  action  by 
his,  and  to  taste  those  pure  joys  which  arise  from  the  harmony  of  a  truly  pious 
soul  with  ours.'  There  is  a  delicate  intelligence  between  souls  which  needs  not 
the  medium  of  words.  Beautiful  music,  poetry,  even  the  discourse  of  a  third  person 
opens  to  us  a  thousand  sources  of  harmonious  enjoyment ;  we  are  sure  to  meet,  to  under- 
p  57 


THE   DIADEM. 

stand  one  another  in  the  midst  of  the  bustle  of  a  separating,  disturbing,  unsympathizing 
■world.  Count  Ferdinand  reads  excellently,  as  Gotthold  also  thinks,  and  often  delights 
us  with  his  pleasing  talent.  He  brought  a  book  to-day  from  which  he  read  many 
beautiful  things.  Some  verses  especially  made  a  great  impression  on  me  ;  they  began 
as  follows  : 

Dearest !  whom  have  we  entrusted 

With  love's  secret? — God  alone  ! 
And  as  love's  eternal  witness 

Only  God  our  hearts  hath  known. 
Dearest!  no  friend  purer,  truer 

Loving  hearts  can  ever  own  ; 
Dearest!  let  us  then  take  counsel 

Only  from  our  God  alone. 

These  verses  were  as  if  taken  from  my  soul !  I  was  enraptured,  surprised,  and 
had  the  imprudence  to  express  my  joy  aloud. 

Count  Ferdinand  immediately  offered  to  copy  the  verses  for  me.  Yes,  it  seemed 
to  give  him  great  pleasure  that  I  approved  of  his  choice.  Gotthold  afterwards  cast  an 
earnest,  somewhat  uneasy  glance  at  me.  It  seemed  that  he  censured  me  for  my  can- 
dor, and  in  truth  I  repented  of  it  most  sincerely.  I  felt  I  had  awakened  attention  by  my 
inconsiderate  expressions.  I  was  glad  when  soon  after  they  went  to  the  piano. 
Count  Ferdinand  sung  with  much  expression,  and  I  think  his  mind  has  more  depth 
than  one  would  expect  from  his  youthful  appearance. 

Aurora  refused  to  sing  duetts  with  him. 

June  25. — I  have  the  poetry,  but  I  wish  I  had  never  betrayed  a  desire  for  it ! 
The  countess  went  past  me  wilh  a  cutting  glance  when  Count  Ferdinand  gave  me  the 
copy.  An  evident  constraint  seemed  to  exist  between  them,  and  Madame  Waiting 
and  Aurora  were  plainly  out  of  humor  also,  and  looked  coldly  and  distantly  upon  me. 
The  peaceful  spirit,  which  usually  brings  all  things  into  harmony  is  wanting  here. 
Mr.  Gotthold  has  gone  on  a  journey  for  some  days,  and  I  am  left  to  myself  in  this 
painful  condition.  As  I  know  not  how  I  have  offended,  and  no  one  will  tell  me 
openly  the  cause  of  this  general  displeasure,  I  think  it  best  to  go  as  little  as  possible 
into  the  parlor.  As  Lady  Schlicht  still  occupies  her  solitary  room  by  the  garden,  the 
wish  to  keep  her  company  affords  me  a  fitting  pretext. 

She  seems  pleased  when  I  am  with  her,  shows  me  much  love  and  confidence. 
To-day  she  told  me  some  circumstances  connected  with  the  house.  Count  Ferdinand 
is  intended  for  Aurora,  as  I  supposed.  The  involved  affairs  of  the  countess  and  her 
obligations  to  the  councillor,  have,  as  I  learned,  contributed  much  towards  this  mutual 
agreement.  They  hope  the  young  pair  concur  in  the  wishes  of  their  parents.  Oh,  that 
good  Count  Ferdinand  may  be  happy  with  Aurora ! 

June  28. — The  poor  weaver's  wife  whom  I  nursed,  is  again  able  to  superintend 
her  little  household  and  take  part  in  the  work.  Oh,  how  happy  I  was  to  see  her  reco- 
vered, and  sitting  in  the  midst  of  her  children  at  their  simple  meal. 

58 


THE    ROSE. 

Lady  Schlicht  is  also  so  much  restored,  that  she  can  walk  around  the  garden 
with  my  aid.  I  find  every  day  more  pleasure  in  her  society.  There  is  something 
motherly  in  hef  nature,  which  does  me  good.  Mr.  Gotthold  has  also  a  great  respect 
for  her.  He  has  evidently  known  her  long,  and  she  also  esteems  him,  and  is  pleased 
when  he  bears  us  company.  It  is  as  instructive  as  agreeable  to  me  to  follow  their 
conversation.  Mr.  Gotthold  spoke  of  the  count  to-day.  He  thinks  he  possesses,  in 
spite  of  his  youth,  a  certain  depth  of  mind,  and  a  just  estimation  of  what  belongs  to 
true  happiness.  He  then  stated  his  fears  as  to  the  intended  connection,  and  wished 
that  the  count's  inclination  for  the  military  service  had  been  indulged,  rather  than 
that  his  liberty  should  be  so  early  restricted. 

Lady  Schlicht  was  of  his  opinion.  She  especially  censured  the  deciding  of  a 
young  man's  choice  by  external  advantages,  and  called  plans  of  this  kind  an  arbitrary 
encroachment  on  the  life  of  another,  not  in  accordance  with  the  divine  will. — 
She  believes  also  that  God  makes'  his  will  known  to  every  one  in  this  important 
matter,  and  this  alone  should  decide  our  choice.  She  related  to  us  many  agreeable 
circumstances  connected  with  her  family,  especially  about  her  daughter  Marie,  who 
has  married  a  Mr.  Von  Alban  and  lives  most  happily.  They  possess  an  estate 
near  the  town  where  Lady  Schlicht  lives,  and  she  passes  her  fete  days  in  the  company 
of  her  children  and  grandchildren. 

July  2. — I  have  made  a  discovery  which  troubles  me.  I  only  reckon  my  life  by 
the  hours  I  pass  with  Gotthold  ;  all  the  rest  seems  unmeaning,  useless,  vain.  Is  it 
because  his  presence  bestows  so  much  upon  me  and  upon  us  all  ?  Or  am  I  so  wholly 
his,  that  my  being  can  only  unfold  itself  with  joy  near  him  ?  Does  he  enter?  What 
sweet  peace  sinks  into  my  heart !  How  clear  then  is  all  before  my  eyes  in  my  soul !  With- 
out him  everything  confuses,  oppresses,  troubles  me.  Count  Ferdinand  looks  at  me 
often  with  troubled  glances  as  if  he  liad  something  to  reproach  me  with,  the  countess 
looks  down  upon  me  with  stately  contempt,  and  Madame  Waiting  and  Aurora  are 
evidently  offended. 

July  3. — What  have  I  heard!  Oh,  must  these  beautiful  days  end  so  quickly, 
so  unexpectedly  ?  They  wish  me  to  accompany  Lady  Schlicht  home — and  I,  ah !  I 
have  no  voice,  no  will ! 

In  her  last  letter  my  mother  consented  to  my  prolonged  absence.  I  have 
myself  begged  to  stay.  What  excuse  have  I,  for  Lady  Schlicht  is  so  good,  so  kind, 
so  motherly  to  me.  I  will  go — but  how  shall  I  bear  the  separation  !  Blest  as  I  have 
been  I  thought  these  days  would  always  last,  and  my  hopes  would  ever  bloom  more 
brightly,  and  gave  myself  up  to  these  prophesies  like  a  happy  child.  Now  all  at  once 
I  stand  at  the  limit  of  my  dreamy  happiness.  I  must  awake,  and  look  calmly  around  and 
leave  all,  all  that  was  dear  to  me.  I  waited  full  of  impatience  for  Gotthold's  appear- 
ance. I  thought  he  would  not  be  less  disturbed  than  I  myself — yes,  my  foolish  heart 
feared  more  for  the  sorrow  of  the  beloved  than  its  own.  But — how  collected  are 
men  !  Gotthold  heard  me  attentively,  when  I  told  him  what  had  been  arranged  for 
me;  yes,  I  even  fancied  a  gleam  of  joy  lighted  up  his  face.     "  And  are  you  content.'" 

59 


THE    DIADEM. 

asked  he,  bending  down  to  me  inquiringly.     I  could  not  restrain  my  tears,  and  turned 
away  to  conceal  my  weakness. 

"Anna,"  said  he,  gently  taking  me  by  the  hand,  "All  will,  all  must  serve  as 
blessings  to  you.  What  seems  the  work  of  men  is  assuredly  the  work  of  God.  With 
your  motherly  friend  I  know  you  to  be  safe,  and  am  consoled.  Dark,  troubled  times 
pass  away,  and  we  daily  see  how  God  sends  more  lovely,  peaceful  days  after  a  stormy 
sky."  At  these  words  I  looked  at  him,  he  smiled,  pressed  my  hand  and  was 
going  to  say  more,  when  the  appearance  of  others  put  an  end  to  the  conversation. 
Although  I  could  with  difficulty  collect  my  thoughts,  I  endeavored  to  conceal  the  sad 
frame  of  my  mind. 

Gotthold's  efforts  succeeded  at  last  in  making  me  more  cheerful. 

When  in  the  evening  I  went  to  my  room  and  heard  Gotthold's  voice  no  longer, 
liis  consoling  expressions  gradually  passed  away  from  my  mind,  and  I  felt  nothing  so 
clearly  and  distinctly  as  my  grief,  my  irreparable  loss.  I  sank  on  the  sofa  and  wept 
aloud.  Never  had  such  misery  entered  my  soul ;  so  much  the  more  powerful  was  its  first 
violence.  In  this  frame  of  mind  Aurora  surprised  me.  She  silently  seated  herself 
opposite,  and  a  feeling  of  tenderness  for  me  appeared  to  struggle  with  her  long  con- 
cealed vexation. 

Aurora  congratulated  me  on  having  so  evidently  won  the  favor  of  her  godmother. 
She  took  pains  to  gloss  over  her  previously  expressed  opinions  of  her,  and  promised 
me  pleasant  days  the  more  I  brought  myself  to  her  way  of  thinking.  I  saw  plainly, 
that  I  was  henceforth  fully  given  up  to  Lady  Schlicht,  that  my  stay  at  Lindenruh 
was  at  an  end  forever — and  grieved  in  silence,  that  I,  with  the  honest  will  to  devote 
myself  faithfully  to  all,  was  yet  so  easily  dispensed  with  and  would  be  so  soon 
forgotten. 

Aurora  left  me  at  last  in  the  conviction  of  having  benefited  me.  I  cordially 
gave  her  my  hand — ah,  it  was  not  her  fault  that  we  never  understood  each  other. 

Jidy  5. — Yes,  truth  has  a  victorious  power.  I  am  dear  to  him ;  he  hopes,  he 
wishes  that  we  may  meet  again  !  When  he  stood  before  me,  and  his  clear  open  eye 
rested  on  me,  so  lovingly,  then  I  felt  as  if  God  had  given  his  children  a  sign  by 
which  they  might  recognise  and  again  hereafter  recognise  each  other.  Yes,  we 
love,  but  not  as  the  world  loves ;  we  exist  for  a  higher  world ;  and  if  we  are 
separated  throughout  this  whole  life,  the  power  of  man  can  go  no  further,  and  we  will 
joyfully  join  hands  above,  where  love  is  known,  where  no  envy  disturbs  it,  and  where 
it  may  unveil  its  face  before  all  the  angels  without  blushing. 

How  calm,  how  peaceful  my  heart  is  now  !  Yes,  God  has  heard  my  prayer,  and" 
given  me  a  conviction  which  is  far  above  all  earthly  hopes.  Henceforth  I  will  calmly 
follow  where  the  fatherly  hand  of  God  conducts  me.  I  know  that  if  I  keep  to  this 
path  the  most  painful  self-sacrifice  will  bear  its  blessing.  Yes,  to  keep  in  the  path  of 
God  we  gave  each  our  hands  at  parting!  1  wept  not — but  his  lips  quivered  as  if  in 
great  pain.  Ah,  the  last  conversation  with  him  was  like  balm ;  it  strengthened  me,  it 
gave  me  a  heavenly,  undying  consolation. 

60 


THE    ROSE. 

July  13. — It  is  a  week  since  I  left  Lindenruh.  The  parting  from  Madame 
Waiting  and  Aurora  was  extremely  painful.  So  many  proofs  of  love  demanded  thanks  ; 
I  was  indebted  to  them  in  so  many  ways,  but  I  was  so  much  moved,  that  I  could  only 
stammer  forth  unmeaning  words,  and  had  nothing  to  give  but  tears.  Since  then  I 
have  feared  to  touch  my  diary  ;  for  I  would  suppress  the  feelings  in  which  I  lose  myself 
whenever  I  think  of  the  past. 

I  daily  make  sad  discoveries  of  the  weakness  of  my  heart.  I  surprise  myself 
indulging  in  reproaches,  and  cannot  forget  that  for  a  false  notion  they  could  so  coldly 
blight  the  young  germ  of  my  happiness.  Lady  Schlicht  thinks  that  the  young  count 
was  in  love  with  me,  and  that  this  was  the  cause  of  my  being  sent  from  Lindenruh.  I 
could  not  believe  it,  I  could  see  nothing  but  an  arbitrary  interference  with  my  happi- 
ness— yes,  there  have  been  hours  in  which  I  forgot  that  not  the  will  of  men  but  of  a 
higher  Being  rules  our  lives. 

What  threatens  me  with  still  more  danger,  and  favors  so  much  my  ideal  life, 
is  the  great  solitude  which  reigns  in  Lady  Schlicht's  house.  She  and  I  and  two  old 
domestics  are  the  only  occupants  of  this  large  building.  Several  rooms  are  filled  with 
stores  of  all  kinds,  and  so  often  are  we  engaged  in  airing  and  arranging  them,  that  it 
seems  as  if  we  living  creatures  were  here  only  to  serve  the  lifeless.  Illness  brought 
on  by  the  journey  confines  Lady  Schlicht  a  great  deal  to  her  room  ;  I  therefore 
superintend  the  housekeeping,  and  as  that  is  very  simple,  have  more  time  to  myself 
than  I  need. 

July  20. — How  much  good  Lady  Schlicht  has  been  misunderstood  !  Her  character 
unfolds  itself  ever  brighter  and  brighter  before  me !  She  is  frugal  even  in  a  severe 
sense  of  the  word,  but  only  with  regard  to  herself,  not  to  others. 

Her  simple  meal  is  without  profusion,  that  her  charitable  hand  may  dispense  the 
gifts  of  God  the  more  abundantly  to  others. 

Riotous  wealth  sits  not  at  her  table.  No  splendor,  no  luxury  courts  the  admira- 
tion of  dainty  guests  ;  but  daily  the  sick  and  needy  receive  refreshment  from  the 
kitchen  of  their  benefactress,  and  she  seeqis  to  occupy  her  dwelling  only  that  she 
may  be  a  more  faithful  steward  of  the  great  Giver.  At  first  I  was  surprised  at 
Lady  Schlicht's  refusing  on  several  occasions  to  give  charity ;  but  I  afterwards  made 
the  discovery,  that  she  employed  several  indigent  families  of  the  place  in  sewing,  paid 
them  well  for  their  work,  and  laid  it  aside  for  new  gifts  of  love.  Her  whole 
being  is  a  silent,  well  directed  charity,  but  as  she  never  speaks  of  it,  few  know  her 
worth,  and  the  noble  heart  will  crumble  into  dust  mistaken  and  slandered,  while 
angels  write  her  name  in  the  book  of  life. 

July  28. — As  Lady  Schlicht  observes  that  I  faithfully  and  cheerfully  perform 
the  little  duties  laid  upon  me,  she  bestows  on  me  offices  of  a  higher  kind.  And  it 
rejoices  me,  for  I  see  in  it  increase  of  love,  for  the  afTection  of  the  good  is  certainly 
measured  by  their  confidence.  Yesterday  for  the  first  time  I  accompanied  her  to  a 
girls'  school,  founded  at  her  expense. 

The  expression,  which  at  her  appearance  might  be  read  on  all  their  young  faces, 
Q  61 


THE    DIADEM. 

showed  the  high  respect  which  Lady  Scldicht  enjoys  here.  Like  a  mother  she  seated 
herself  at  the  work-table,  examined  the  children's  sewing,  and  took  out  a  book  to  read 
to  them,  as  usual,  something  instructive.  I  also  had  brought  work  with  me.  I  sat 
proudly  by  her  side,  while  the  little  friendly  faces  glanced  curiously  towards  us. — 
The  reading  over,  I  pressed  Lady  Schlicht's  hand  with  deep  emotion,  and  she  said, 
that  if  I  liked  her  nursery  ground  I  might  till  the  fruitful  soil  in  her  stead  for  a  time. 
I  was  delighted  at  the  charge,  and  promised  to  fulfil  it  with  all  fidelity.  I  have 
already  made  a  commencement  with  Jane  Midler  and  God  blessed  my  poor  work  with 
great  joy. 

I  now  spend  some  hours  every  afternoon  in  the  school.  I  help  the  teacher  in 
preparing  and  arranging  the  work  ;  I  read  with  the  children  and  repeat  to  them  my 
favorite  songs  and  sayings.     Every  day  they  look  on  me  more  as  a  friend. 

August  8. — I  wrote  to  my  good  mother  to-day,  and  told  her  about  my  new  abode. 
Thank  God,  that  I  could  say  with  truth,  that  I  am  content  and  happy,  and  gather  rich 
profit  for  my  heart  from  the  course  of  life  of  this  rare  lady,  who  loves  me  so  mater- 
nally.    Lady  Schlicht  daily  gives  me  fresh  proofs  of  her  confidence. 

When  a  short  time  ago  I  expressed  surprise  at  her  large  correspondence,  she 
told  me  she  stood  in  the  light  of  a  mother,  not  only  to  her  daughter,  but  to  many  foster 
daughters. 

I  learned  that  since  the  marriage  of  her  Marie  she  had  every  year  portioned  a 
poor  girl,  whom  she  first  instructed  a  year  in  housekeeping,  and  then  provided  for  to 
the  best  of  her  judgment.  She  added,  that  she  was  now  in  the  act  of  preparing  the 
dowry  of  her  youngest  foster  daughter,  but  on  account  of  her  eyes  being  weak  from 
sickness,  she  was  at  a  loss  how  to  manage  it  as  neatly  as  she  could  wish,  and 
must,  therefore,  look  around  for  a  skilful  assistant.  I  begged  her  to  make  a  trial 
of  my  sewing,  and  ever  since  have  had  the  pleasure  of  helping  Lady  Schlicht  in 
making  the  necessary  things.  The  thought  that  I  am  working  for  a  happy  betrothed 
gives  me  much  pleasure.  She  is  called  Anny  and  I  shall  know  her  if  I  stay  till 
spring. 

Evening  and  the  friendly  moon  often  surprise  me  at  my  work-table.  Then 
comes  Lady  Schlicht,  tenderly  anxious,  and  invites  me  down  into  her  room,  where 
we  pass  the  twilight  hours  in  familiar  conversation.  We  think  together  of  the  days 
at  Lindenruh,  and  Gotthold's  name  is  mentioned  with  happy  remembrances.  My 
heart  swells  more  joyfully,  and  when  she  reads  my  emotion  in  my  eyes,  she  gently 
strokes  my  forehead  and  says,  "  Thou  may'st  always  love  the  honest  man  with  all 
thy  heart!"  I  do  so,  and  think  with  joy  of  his  affection.  When  we  look  up  to  good 
men  we  always  become  better,  for  what  we  love  we  strive  to  imitate.  So  says  Lady 
Schlicht,  thus  I  can  quietly  continue  to  cherish  my  love  under  her  eyes  without 
being  censured  with  unloving  severity.  Ah,  it  is  only  the  perversity  of  men  that 
throws  shadows  across  the  bright  mirror  of  a  loving  heart.  I  support  myself  in 
the  faith,  that  every  noble  love  is  from  God,  and  has  the  promise  of  enduring  beyond 
life. 

62 


THE    ROSE. 

The  last  of  September. — A  long  time  has  fled  since  I  last  wrote  in  my  diary. 
But  I  have  therefore  the  more  to  say,  for  I  have  made  a  little  excursion  with  Lady 
Schlicht.  My  motherly  friend  had  often  spoken  of  her  daughter  Marie.  She  lives 
some  miles  from  this  place  on  a  beautiful  estate,  and  we  took  a  sudden  determination 
to  surprise  her  with  a  visit,  before  the  north  wind  stripped  the  country  of  the  last 
flowers. 

Many  preparations  were  to  be  made  for  the  journey.  Lady  Schlicht  consi- 
dered carefully  how  she  could  best  delight  her  grand-children,  and  accordingly 
books,  games  and  useful  tools  of  all  kinds  were  bought.  What  pleasure  that  was  ! 
The  lady  of  the  house  was  also  thought  of,  even  Mr.  Von  Alban  did  not  go  empty. 
A  beautiful  set  of  finely  cut  glass  intended  for  the  supper  table  was  packed  up. — 
"Upon  these  the  choice  fruits  of  autumn  will  look  still  more  beautiful!"  said 
Lady  Schlicht  pointing  to  the  elegant  fruit  dishes,  and  then  giving  me  a  description 
of  the  magnificent  pleasure  grounds  which  surround  the  mansion  of  Mr.  Von  Alban. 
With  what  joyful  expectations  I  mounted  the  travelling  carriage!  It  was  a  lovely 
afternoon,  when  we  stopped  before  the  garden  gate.  We  went  through  the  care- 
fully kept  avenue  of  orchard  trees  up  to  the  beautiful  mansion,  whose  white  walls 
half  covered  with  fragrant  creeping  plants  rose  from  the  midst  of  a  rich  flower 
garden.  The  high  balcony,  ascended  at  the  side  by  steps  and  adorned  with  rare 
plants,  had  almost  the  appearance  of  a  pulpit  with  its  dark  drapery  of  vines.  Lady 
Schlicht  laughed  at  me  for  this  comparison,  and  said  I  could  never  disguise  the  pastor's 
daughter.  But  to  me  it  seemed  as  if  I  saw  the  dear  form  of  my  father  standing  above 
there,  for  I  must  always  think  of  him  when  I  enter  the  Paradise  of  a  happy  home. 
Looking  over  a  jasmine  hedge,  we  perceived  before  us  on  a  garden  bench  a  graceful 
female  form  bending  over  a  sleeping  child.  "That  is  Marie!"  whispered  Lady 
Schlicht,  and  drew  me  back,  but  the  little  curly  head,  who  was  playingat  his  mother's 
feet  had  already  recognised  us,  and  with  joyful  exultation  announced  the  approach  of 
his  beloved  grandmother.  Marie  sprang  up  with  a  low  cry  of  joy — the  sight  of  her 
mother  could  scarcely  protect  the  sleep  of  the  infant.  "  Here  I  bring  thee  ray  Anna!" 
said  Lady  Schlicht,  leading  me  to  her.  The  warmth  with  which  Marie  received  me 
convinced  me  that  I  was  not  a  stranger  there. 

The  door  soon  opened,  and  one  little  angel's  head  after  another  looked  down  from 
the  green  balcony,  now  hiding  playfully,  now  peeping  curiously  down  until  the  whole 
train  of  five  brothers  and  sisters  came  down  the  steps,  illuminating  them  like  a  ladder 
to  heaven. 

Mr.  Von  Alban  came  also,  a  noble  form,  with  the  expression  of  an  active 
life  in  look,  movement  and  voice.  All  surrounded  the  venerable  matron  with  evident 
joy,  and  the  elder  girls  brought  out  refreshments,  and  adorned  the  table  with  flowers 
and  fruits. 

Marie  spoke  little  ;  she  listened  with  silent  happiness  to  the  words  of  her  beloved 
mother  and  the  cheerful  conversation  of  her  husband,  while  her  eyes  rested  by  turns 
on  her  children.  Now  and  then  her  bright  eye  glanced  over  to  me,  as  if  she  w^ould 
say :  "  Am  I  not  happy  and  rich,  and  blessed  among  a  thousand .'" 

63 


THE    DIADEM. 

When  Lady  Schlicht  called  her  grand-children  to  her  one  after  another,  and  the 
father  proud  of  his  wealth  placed  before  her,  first  the  slender  girls,  and  then  the  mis- 
chievous boys,  and  all  looked  at  her  at  once  timidly  and  lovingly — then  Marie's  eyes 
became  moist,  and  she  leaned  on  her  husband's  arm,  as  if  she  needed  a  support  in  her 
happiness,  and  one,  felt  what  deep  thankfulness  moved  their  hearts,  and  how  that  circle 
■was  their  world.  When  evening  set  in,  and  we  entered  the  spacious  parlor,  what  a 
pleasing  impression  all  that  I  saw  made  upon  me.  There  was  no  splendor,  but 
everywhere  order  and  neatness,  united  with  the  most  judicious  taste.  Throughout 
the  domestic  arrangements  there  existed  entire  harmony.  Beside  the  work-table 
of  the  lady  of  the  house  stood  the  smaller  one  of  the  girls — beside  the  book-case  of  the 
father  leaned  the  hobby-horse  of  Theodore,  and  as  if  even  the  youngest  children 
wished  to  imitate  the  tender  care  of  the  mother,  they  had  placed  their  doll's  cradle 
beside  that  of  the  baby. 

It  was  plain  that  a  domestic  festival  vras  in  celebration.  The  wine  sparkled  in 
clear  goblets,  and  autumn  poured  out  its  abundant  horn  upon  our  table.  When  the 
children  were  put  to  rest,  the  conversation  in  our  little  circle  turned  upon  a  variety  of 
subjects.  Marie  now  took  an  active  part  in  it,  and  I  looked  up  to  her  with  as  much 
admiration  for  her  cultivation  of  mind,  as  with  ever  increasing  love  for  her  delicate, 
pure  soul.  When  I  asked  about  the  society  she  had,  she  told  me  the  few  families  of 
the  neighborhood  whom  she  would  select,  were  too  much  occupied  by  their  affairs  to 
be  able  to  give  her  often  the  pleasure  of  gay  company. 

She  then  led  me  to  her  library,  and  said,  "  Here  you  see  the  solace  of  our  lonely 
hours!" 

She  went  on  to  tell  me  that  Mr.  Von  Alban  set  much  value  upon  well 
chosen  reading,  and  she  seemed  to  extol  with  especial  thankfulness  this  qualify  of  her 
husband.  The  next  morning  I  found  opportunity  of  learning  more  about  the  regula- 
tion and  management  of  their  domestic  economy. 

How  pleasant  it  was  to  find  here  the  pious  custom  of  our  home,  to  begin  the  day 
with  morning  prayer.  All  the  members  of  the  house  take  part  in  it  ;  and  it  is  a  beau- 
tiful sight  to  see  Marie  in  the  midst  of  her  family,  full  of  devotion  and  sincerity, 
guiding  their  hearts  towards  the  source  of  all  blessings  and  with  the  simple  heartfelt 
utterance  of  some  pious  hymn  or  prayer  consecrating  the  new  day.  Mr.  Von  Alban 
is  never  willingly  absent  at  this  hour  of  meeting.  The  children  show  by  their  reve- 
rential behavior  that  the  desire  for  higher  things,  the  love  for  God,  is  already  awakened 
within  them,  and  Marie  joyfully  cultivates  the  good  soil,  for  she  knows  by  experience 
that  this  love  is  the  source  of  all  peace,  as  well  as  all  cheerfulness  of  heart. 

What  lovely  images  passed  before  me,  during  those  quiet,  pleasant  days,  what  a 
succession  of  happy  rural  festivals!  Sometimes  little  excursions  on  the  water  were 
taken,  and  our  table  was  set  in  the  green  tent  of  the  forest — sometimes  the  rich  fruit 
and  wine  offered  us  new  pleasures.  The  free  enjoyment  of  nature,  the  hours  of 
innocent  mirth,  all  did  my  heart  good  and  yet  it  often  felt  sadly  oppressed! 

When  the  time  of  this  pleasant  visit  was  over,  and  we  returned  to  our  quiet  home 

64 


THE    ROSE. 

I  took  every  means  of  curbing  my  busy  thoughts  by  the  sober  course  of  my  daily 
work.  I  seated  myself  in  my  little  balcony  room  and  worked  at  Anny's  present. 
The  rude  north  wind  drives  the  faded  leaves  of  the  nut-tree  rustling  past  my  window. 
I  sigh  over  that  emblem  of  the  past ;  while  to  escape  from  a  sad  heart,  I  picture  to 
myself  the  joy  of  the  happy  girl,  when  on  the  wedding  morning  the  unexpected  gift  is 
brought  in,  and  all  faces  are  turned  with  delight  and  astonishment  to  the  well  filled 
bridal  chest.     Yes,  we  can  forget  our  own  sorrows  in  the  joy  of  others ! 

October  6. — I  have  just  received  a  letter  from  Martha.  Thank  God  that  mother 
is  well  and  Martha  can  write  so  merrily  !  She  calls  me  a  vagrant,  no  longer  suited  for 
a  peaceful  parsonage,  and  writes  me  a  letter  full  of  fun.  I  am  to  guess  who  has 
mounted  the  pulpit,  and  for  whom  she  consults  the  invaluable  cookery  receipt,  No.  3. 
IwagerHerr  Selmont  is  again  at  Tannenberg,  and  therefore  the  roguish  girl  cannot  keep 
from  teazing.  If  Martha  were  to  read  my  diary,  she  would  wonder  and  quickly 
change  her  tone.  How  glad  I  am  I  shared  only  my  joys  with  others  and  kept  my  deeper 
feelings  for  these  pages.  At  a  distance  every  sorrow  which  affects  a  beloved  one 
becomes  a  gnawing  torture,  for  its  bitterness  alone  is  felt,  but  not  the  consolation  with 
which  the  hand  of  God  accompanies  all  suffering.  To-day  when  the  letter  carrier 
entered  my  room  a  strange  anxiety  came  over  me.  I  thought  Gotthold  had  possibly 
chosen  this  way  of  giving  me  a  token  of  his  remembrance.  In  a  frame  of  mind  like  mine 
how  constantly  one  imagines  what  one  secretly  wishes.  If  a  stranger  enters,  it  must  be 
Gotthold  ;  do  I  see  a  form  like  his,  I  cannot  avoid  looking  after  it  uneasily  for  fear  he 
has  missed  the  right  house,  until  I  am  convinced  of  my  error.  If  I  go  on  this  way  I 
shall  soon  see  spirits  also  ;  ah,  I  see  them  already,  at  least  in  my  dreams,  and  these  are 
the  brightest  moments  of  my  life. 

December  2. — To-day  Lady  Schlicht  and  I  have  cut  out  a  quantity  of  clothes. — 
They  are  all  intended  as  Christmas  presents  for  the  children  of  our  school.  The  girls 
are  themselves  to  make  a  part  of  these  things.  They  do  not  guess  they  are  working 
for  themselves,  but  imagine  they  are  industrious  for  others.  This  afternoon,  as  I  distri- 
buted the  vrork,  the  thought  occurred  to  me  that  Providence  not  unfrequently  acts  in 
the  same  manner  by  us.  It  often  gives  into  our  hands  the  threads,  with  which,  if  we 
are  careful,  we  can  weave  our  destiny  to  our  satisfaction.  While  we  think  to  serve 
others  only,  we  unconsciously  work  for  our  own  happiness. 

December  24. — This  day  has  not  passed  without  sadness.  It  is  the  first  time  that 
I  have  been  absent  from  under  the  Christmas  tree  at  Tannenberg.  My  eyes  filled  with 
tears  when  I  thought  of  my  good  mother  and  Martha,  and  I  would  gladly  have  set  off" 
in  the  stage  coach,  with  the  little  box  which  Lady  Schlicht  in  my  name  has  filled  with  all 
kinds  of  useful  things  for  those  at  home.  In  the  evening  was  the  giving  of  Christmas 
presents  in  our  school.  Ah,  that  was  a  beautiful,  touching  festival !  Never  shall  I 
forget  the  sight,  when  Lady  Schlicht  stood  among  the  children  in  the  brightness  of 
the  gay  Christmas  lights,  and  celebrated  this  festival  so  truly  in  the  spirit  of  our 
Lord  and  Saviour.  The  girls  had  practised  a  beautiful  Christmas  hymn  and  received 
us  with  their  simple  melody.  They  were  then  led  into  the  adjoining  room,  where  Lady 
K  65 


THE    DIADEM. 

Schlicht  and  I  had  arranged  the  gifts  of  each.  Lady  Schlicht  spoke  in  simple 
words  of  the  blessing  of  the  Lord,  ■which  is  shared  by  all,  even  the  youngest,  who 
is  found  faithful  and  honest ; — and  then  she  called  the  children  to  her  to  receive  their 
presents.  Ah,  how  many  glistening,  thankful  ej-es  rested  on  the  happy  giver,  and 
how  like  a  radiant  one  she  stood  among  the  children,  and  heaven  with  its  thousand 
stars  looked  down  into  that  little  room,  approving  and  blessing  her. 

JVew  Fear's  Eve. — This  evening  I  sat  at  my  window,  and  as  the  last  hours  of 
the  year  sank  away,  and  the  friendly  star-light  of  the  long  winter's  night  deepened 
into  a  mild  day,  the  forms  of  the  past  moved  slowly  before  me,  and  I  read,  without 
need  of  my  diary,  the  whole  history  of  this  rich  eventful  year.  How  much  had  it  given 
me,  how  much  love  also  taken  away,  and  how  I  longed  to  trace  throughout  the  threads 
with  which  the  Ruler  of  our  destiny  weaves  his  wondrous  web  into  one  harmonious 
whole. 

My  father  once  said,  we  must  believe  without  beholding,  nor  wish  to  find  here 
the  connection  of  things,  which  it  is  granted  to  our  purified  eyes  to  behold  only  when 
the  veil  is  removed.  According  to  his  views  all  upon  earth  is  but  education,  and  even 
the  appearance  of  beloved  men  is  only  important  to  us  in  so  far  as  they  help  to  enlighten 
and  improve  us.  We  should  seek  the  blessing  of  the  divine  guidance  more  in  us 
than  wilhout  us. 

I  will  study  this  truth  with  all  the  power  of  my  soul.  We,  selfish  children  of 
earth,  always  lay  such  great  value  on  what  we  call  happy  events,  and  believe  we  recog- 
nise in  them  the  especial  love  of  God. — But  is  it  not  rather  his  silent  angel.  Pain, 
which  brings  us  nearest  to  his  paternal  heart,  and  forms  in  us  the  blessed  germ  of  good, 
as  the  pearl  shell  must  first  be  pierced,  before  it  yields  the  costly  jewel  in  its  still 
recesses?  Ah,  I  know  well  the  pearl  which  thou  requirest  of  my  soul,  thou  good, 
mysterious,  loving,  unseen  Father.''  It  is  the  submission  which  looks  child-like  up  to 
thee,  and  the  faith  which  wavers  not,  though  the  waves  of  doubt  arise.  Lead  me 
now  gently  through  the  new  year  as  thou  didst  guide  me  through  the  green  pastures 
of  a  never  to  be  forgotten  spring,  and  give  me  also  the  sweet  hope,  which  covets  nothing, 
but  only  dreams  happily,  and  the  love,  which  turns  to  heaven  with  veiled  eyes,  and 
the  patience  which,  modest  and  silent,  waits  thy  will  and  can  even  smile  at  the  grave 
of  its  joys. 

March. — Winter  hastens  by  like  a  dream.  Already  I  have  heard  the  first 
lark,  the  lilac  bush  before  my  window  bears  buds,  and  the  time  of  the  blessed 
awaking  is  at  hand.  Inexpressible  yearnings  arise  in  me !  I  would  spread  my  wings 
and  hasten  away — ah,  whither  ?  Lady  Schlicht  often  looks  at  me  inquiringly,  when 
I  stand  at  the  window  and  gaze  at  the  young  spring  heaven,  and  then  my  eyes  over- 
flow, I  know  not  whether  in  joy  or  sorrow.  She  guesses  rightly,  but  she  no  longer 
speaks  his  name  for  fear  of  exciting  fresh  emotion.  His  silence  is  oppressive  to  her  as 
well  as  to  me,  but  we  love  quietly  on  and  enclose  him  in  the  prayer  of  our  hearts. — 
What  a  soft,  sad  melody  often  pervades  this  resurrection-festival  of  nature!  All 
appears,  all  returns  ;  the  great  giver  of  joy.  Nature  owes  her  creatures  not  a  blade  of 

66 


THE    ROSE. 

grass.     Then  the  heart  hopes  that  the  joys  of  past  days  will  bloom  again  with  the 
flowers,  and  misgivingly  and  anxiously  turns  towards  the  future. 

April  3. — I  have  received  a  letter  from  my  mother.  She  wishes  me  to  return  by 
the  first  of  May.  She  has,  so  she  writes,  many  important  affairs  to  consult  me  upon. 
The  choice  of  a  minister  is  decided  ^  we  must  in  all  probability  leave  our  house  by  the 
first.  I  shall  now  return  to  take  leave  forever,  perhaps,  of  my  pear-tree  and  my  flowers ! 
What  plans  can  my  dear  mother  have  formed  ?  She  often  spoke  of  a  change  of  abode, 
and  did  not  seem  disinclined  to  choose  some  small  town  for  our  future  place  of  residence. 
She  thought  we  could  employ  our  little  abilities  better  there,  give  lessons  and  gain  a 
livelihood  by  our  industry. 

When  I  spoke  to  Lady  Schlicht  of  my  mother's  wish,  she  smiled  and  pointed  to  a 
letter,  which  she  had  received  at  the  same  time.  "  If  my  company  will  not  be  dis- 
agreeable to  you,"  said  she  pleasantly,  "  we  will  travel  together.  Some  business 
takes  me  also  to  the  capital.  On  my  return  I  will  visit  you  in  Tannenbcrg,  and  you 
can  then  decide  whether  you  will  return  with  me,  or  again  belong  to  your  mother." 

I  embraced  Lady  Schlicht  with  boisterous  joy.  She  folded  me  to  her  heart  with 
motherly  caresses,  and  we  began  to  sketch  the  plan  of  our  journey. 

As  Anny's  residence  is  not  much  out  of  the  way,  Lady  Schlicht  has  decided  to 
surprise  her  with  a  visit.  The  bridal  things  are  to  be  taken  with  us,  and  we  have 
already  begun  to  arrange  them  in  the  best  order  and  pack  them  up.  Lady  Schlicht 
will  buy  the  bride's  dress  in  the  capital. 

May  3. — Where  shall  I  begin  to  relate?  Where  find  composure  to  write  the 
occurrences  of  the  few  past  days  in  my  book  ?  Oh  God,  thou  who  hast  heaped  so  many 
blessings  upon  me,  strengthen  my  hand,  that  though  with  but  a  feeble  outline  it  may 
complete  the  history  of  this  year.     Circumstances  of  all  kinds  had  delayed  our  journey. 

It  was  the  morning  of  the  first  of  May,  my  birth-day,  when  having  left  Lady 
Schlicht  at  the  capital,  I  entered  the  blooming  gardens  of  Tannenberg,  amidst  the 
ringing  of  the  Sunday  bells.  I  felt  as  if  I  must  prepare  for  some  great  festival.  All 
was  activity  in  the  village  :  everywhere  festival  dresses,  flowers  and  May  blossoms — 
everywhere  busy,  joyous  movement.  With  a  beating  heart  I  entered  the  parsonage, 
but  my  mother  and  Martha  were  gone  to  church.  I  learnt  that  the  day  was  an  occa- 
sion of  especial  solemnity,  as  the  new  pastor  was  to  deliver  his  first  sermon.  Without 
laying  off  my  travelling  dress  I  followed  the  impulse  of  my  heart,  and  went  to  seek 
them  in  God's  house.  I  softly  entered  the  latticed  pew — there  sat  the  best  of  mothers 
and  beside  her  Martha.  A  slight  exclamation  escaped  their  lips  when  they  perceived  me. 
Thank  God !  was  all  that  our  emotion  would  let  us  utter.  We  pressed  each  other's 
hands  and  our  happy  whispering  was  lost  in  the  loud  peals  of  the  organ,  which  now 
introduced  the  first  hymn.  "  Who  puts  his  trust  in  God  alone,"  joined  in  the  whole 
congregation  as  with  one  voice. 

It  was  as  if  God  were  writing  a  new  birth-day  saying  in  my  soul ;  with  childlike 
emotion  my  heart  echoed  the  precious  words.  Then  it  seemed  as  if  my  mother  wished 
to  say  something ;  she  bent  over  to  me,  but  Martha  smiling,  held  her  back — I  thought 

67 


THE    DIADEM. 

the  dear  eyes  of  my  mother  expressed  anxiety,  yet  she  yielded  to  my  sister  and  deferred 
her  communication.  Soon  I  perceived  by  the  looks  of  the  congregation  that  the 
minister  had  ascended  the  pulpit. 

The  situation  of  our  pew  permitted  us  only  to  see  the  half  profile  of  the  preacher. 
Guessing  from  Martha's  smiles,  I  had  imagined  it  would  be  Herr  Selmont  and  was 
astonished  to  perceive  another. 

Still  the  face  of  the  preacher  was  turned  from  us — he  began  his  discourse  with  a 
prayer.  A  voice  full  of  feeling  sounded  forth,  familiar  and  ever  more  familiar.  I 
listened,  I  was  amazed  ;  I  looked,  until  overpowered  by  joyful  emotion,  I  sank  back 
in  my  seat  with  the  cry,  "  Gotthold  !"  Yes,  it  was  he  !  The  wondrous  guidance  of 
the  Lord  had  destined  him  as  the  successor  of  ray  beloved  father.  The  whole  occur- 
rence had  been  designedly  concealed  from  me  that  I  might  be  the  more  joyfully 
surprised.  Yet  my  friends  knew  not  the  depth  of  the  emotion  which  at  that  moment 
almost  threatened  my  life  with  danger.  I  myself  was  alarmed,  and  felt  painfully 
ashamed  at  having  by  this  accident  become  an  object  of  general  attention.  Fortu- 
nately, the  disturbance  was  not  remarked  by  Gotthold.  The  latticed  pew  concealed 
me  from  his  sight.  Only  when  the  ceremony  was  at  an  end,  did  he  learn  what  had 
happened. 

When  I  again  recovered  my  senses  I  saw  Gotthold  by  my  side.  I  thought  it  all 
a  dream,  and  could  scarcely  comprehend  the  occurrences  of  the  last  hour. 

His  glance  rested  on  me  with  anxious  solicitude  ;  he  called  me  by  the  tenderest 
names.  "  Is  this  reality,  that  I  see  and  hear  ?"  stammered  I  at  length.  "  Yes,  it  is 
the  true  and  sure  work  of  the  good  God  !"  replied  Gotthold.  "  He  has  done  it,  and 
brought  all  to  a  blessed  issue.  But  like  a  sinner  I  stand  and  tremble.  For  I  am  to 
blame  that  you  knew  nothing  of  the  past,  and  this  surprise  has  so  violently  shattered 
your  delicate  life  !"  I  tried  to  quiet  him  and  laid  all  upon  the  fatigues  of  the  journey. 
But  he  had  read  my  heart,  and  my  embarrassed  blushes  confirmed  the  truth.  He  then 
went  on  to  tell  me  how  all  had  happened. 

After  his  trial  sermon  he  paid  my  dear  mother  a  visit.  He  was  soon  at  home  in 
our  house,  for  I  had  written  to  Martha  about  him. 

I  saw  plainly  that  Gotthold  wished  to  spare  my  heart,  that  he  wished  to 
guard  it  from  deceitful  expectations,  vain  hopes,  and  only  to  offer  me  the  golden  fruit 
of  happiness  when  it  had  reached  its  full  maturity. 

A  travelling  carriage  driving  up  interrupted  our  conversation.  My  mother  begged 
Mr.  Gotthold  to  assist  her  in  receiving  the  visitor.  "When  I  was  alone,  I  sank  on  my 
knees  and  thanked  God  with  inexpressible  emotion.  The  friend  of  my  soul  ever  near 
us,  he  henceforth  in  my  revered  father's  place,  and  I  in  the  undisturbed  possession  of 
the  delight  of  seeing,  of  hearing  him  daily — I  could  scarcely  bear  the  idea  of  such 
happiness,  and  implored  God  for  support  and  strength.  Next  came  Martha  and 
announced  that  Lady  Schlicht  was  the  visitor,  and  had  begged  to  be  received  by  us,  as 
her  business  in  the  capital  was  ended.  I  hastened  quickly  to  dress  myself,  joy  revived 
me  wonderfully,  and  I  had  soon  overcome  every  trace  of  weakness.     When  I  entered 

68 


THE    ROSE. 

the  sitting  room  vrhat  happy  greetings !     Lady  Schlicht  whispered,  "  Who  puts  his  trust 
in  God  alone,"  glancing  pleasantly  at  me  and  Gotthold. 

After  I  had  spoken  a  little  while  with  my  beloved  mother,  Martha  took  me  ia 
custody,  and  begged  me  to  help  her  in  the  kitchen,  as  not  only  the  strange  lady,  but  in  the 
evening  the  rector  also,  an  old  friend  of  the  family,  was  to  sup  with  us.  When  we 
were  alone,  she  said,  pointing  to  my  myrtle,  which,  tended  by  her  faithful  hands,  was 
again  in  bloom :  "  Know'st  thou  not,  Anna,  that  it  will  soon  be  a  year  since  Herr  Sel- 
mont  dined  with  us .'  Then  I  dreamt  of  a  wedding  and  the  myrtle  bloomed  as  propheti- 
cally as  now  ;  but  nothing  came  of  it!"  I  blushed  and  glanced  at  the  myrtle,  which 
stood  before  me  there  in  wondrous  beauty;  I  wished  to  answer,  but  instead,  sank  on 
my  beloved  sister's  heart.  "  Now  confess !"  scolded  Martha,  "  We  know  all  already! 
Mr.  Gotthold,  like  thee,  has  betrayed  himself,  and  while  this  myrtle  has  been 
blooming,  the  young  pastor  has  filled  the  empty  place  not  only  in  the  pulpit,  but 
also  in  our  family  circle.  I  will  myself  bind  these  flowers  into  a  wreath  and  marry 
the  haughty  Selmont."  Half  confused,  half  joining  in  similar  jests,  I  followed 
the  directions  of  the  busy  girl,  who  laughing  and  teazing  hurried  me  hither  and 
thither,  to  deprive  me,  as  she  said,  of  all  time  for  sentimental  dreaming.  At  noon 
Gotthold  left  us  to  dine  with  the  rector  at  the  manor.  I  had  now  time  to  devote 
myself  exclusively  to  Lady  Schlicht.  She  sat  in  the  midst  of  us  at  table  with  a  face 
radiant  with  joy.  My  good  mother  was  soon  quite  intimate  with  her,  and  never  was 
a  more  delightful  conversation  maintained  than  to-day,  when  so  many  causes  for  joy 
were  combined  with  so  happy  a  union  of  hearts  inwardly  allied.  After  dinner  I  had 
the  pleasure  of  conducting  Lady  Schlicht  everywhere  about  our  parsonage.  I  showed 
her  over  our  house,  our  garden,  our  fields,  and  had  quite  forgotten  that  all  this  was  no 
longer  ours,  but  henceforth  belonged  to  Mr.  Gotthold. 

When  we  at  last  returned  to  my  little  room,  Lady  Schlicht  said  it  was  now  her 
turn  to  show  off.  She  led  me  to  a  little  box  which  Martha  meanwhile  had  placed 
in  my  room,  and  drew  from  it  a  bridal  dress.  She  said  I  had  good  taste,  and 
she  wished  to  consult  me,  but  she  would  prefer  that  I  should  try  on  the  dress, 
that  she  might  see  whether  a  bride  would  appear  becomingly  in  it.  With  curiosity 
I  drew  forth  the  satin,  a  simple  rose  adorned  the  edge  of  the  dress  and  the  lace 
at  the  bosom.  I  smiled  at  Lady  Schlicht's  strange  wish.  But  she  insisted  upon 
it,  and  soon  the  dress  rustled  over  my  shoulders.  Lady  Schlicht  surveyed  me 
with  satisfaction.  She  placed  me  before  the  mirror,  and  looked  smilingly  over  my 
shoulder,  while  I  half  rejoicing,  half  ashamed,  admired  the  prodigious  splendor  which 
hung  strangely  around  me.  The  door  opened,  and  Martha  slipped  in.  "Here 
we  have  the  bride!"  cried  she  triumphantly.  "  Dreams  are  no  Seems,  and  to-morrow 
I  will  have  myself  appointed  court-prophetess!"  With  these  words  she  seized  my 
hand,  and  before  I  could  restrain  the  wild  girl  she  drew  me  into  the  parlor. 

When  the  door  was  opened.  Lady  Schlicht  took  me  solemnly  by  the  hand  and 
led  me  forwards.     My  mother  and  Gotthold  were  in  the  room  ;  both  seemed  serious 
and  moved,  my  heart  beat  with  inexpressible  confusion.     "  Anna  !"  said  my  mother, 
s  69 


THE    DIADEM. 

■"  Thou  enterest  among  us  in  the  dress  of  a  bride !  Wilt  thou  as  such  belong  to  this 
noble  man,  who  desires  to  be  my  son  ?" 

I  stood  for  some  moments  unable  to  say  a  word.  "  Anna,"  entreated  Gotthold, 
"  wilt  thou  be  mine  ?  Oh,  say  that  from  our  first  acquaintance  God  destined  us  for 
one  another,  that  our  betrothal  hardly  needed  words,  much  less  a  binding  promise  !" 
"  I  was  thine  from  the  moment  when  thou  gavest  me  the  rose  !"  said  I,  smiling  through 
tears,  and  Gotthold  raised  his  arm  as  in  that  memorable  moment,  and  exclaimed, 
Thanks  unto  Thee,  0  Thou,  in  whose  hand  we  placed  our  love  and  our  hopes !  Oh, 
remain  henceforth  our  protection,  and  the  rock  on  which  we  may  build  our  happiness 
for  all  eternity!"  Tears  of  inexpressible  rapture  sealed  our  union.  "Your  silent, 
inward  betrothal,"  said  my  mother,  "  has,  I  see,  superseded  the  outward  customary 
festival.  You  shall  atone  for  it.  I  now  appoint  the  wedding  without  further  forma- 
lities. The  rector  is  in  the  house,  the  church  in  festive  array,  and  you  shall  not  want 
for  wedding  cake  and  music." 

But  Martha  here  interposed  and  so  threatened  me  with  the  consistory  and  church 
law,  that  Gotthold  was  forced  to  smile  at  her  eager  eloquence.  All  were  soon  agreed; 
a  rose  was  still  no  ring,  and  our  betrothal  must  be  celebrated. 

July  2. — Yesterday  was  my  wedding  day !  The  highest  joy  that  earth  can  offer, 
God  has  laid  on  my  head  with  the  festive  myrtle.  When  I  exchanged  rings  with 
Gotthold  and  was  bound  to  the  friend  of  my  soul  for  eternity — then  my  humble 
heart  asked :  Oh  God,  how  do  I  deserve  so  much  happiness  ?  But  when  my 
husband  said  I  was  the  crown  of  his  life,  his  happiness,  his  all,  I  felt  suddenly 
elevated  ;  his  love  lends  my  life  a  higher  value,  and  I  could  become  proud  in  the 
thought  of  having  been  chosen  by  him,  the  noble,  the  beloved  of  God,  from  the  free 
inclination  of  his  heart.  Lady  Schlicht  at  our  request,  remained  until  my  wedding 
day.  The  beautiful  bridal  dress,  as  well  as  all  the  rich  bridal  outfit  I  helped  to 
prepare,  was  intended  for  me.  I  was  the  bride  whom  she  meant.  I  rejoice  over  my 
happiness  with  unspeakable  thanks  to  God  ! 

Never  shall  I  look  into  my  diary,  without  blessing  his  guidance,  and  clasping 
my  hands  at  that  beautiful  proverb  which  my  sainted  father  with  prophetic  spirit 
wrote  for  his  daughter  Anna, 

"  All  things  ire  for  the  best  to  tbose  who  love  God." 

B.  T. 


THOUGHTS. 


FBOM     JEAN     PilL     RICBTEB. 


The  inner  man,  like  the  negro,  is  born  white  but  is  coloured  black  by  life.  In 
advanced  age  the  grandest  moral  examples  pass  by  us,  and  our  life-course  is  no  more 
altered  by  them  than  the  earth  is  by  a  flitting  comet;  but  in  childhood  the  first  object 
that  excites  the  sentiment  of  love  or  of  injustice  flings  broad  and  deep  its  light  or 
shadow  over  the  coming  years,  and  as,  according  to  ancient  theologians,  it  was  only 
the  first  sin  of  Adam,  not  his  subsequent  ones,  which  descended  to  us  by  inheritance, 
so  that  since  the  One  Fall  we  make  the  rest  for  ourselves,  in  like  manner  the  first  fall 
and  the  first  ascent  influence  the  whole  life. 

Religion. — One  form  of  religion  after  another  goes  out,  but  the  religious  sense 
which  created  them  all,  can  never  be  extinguished  in  man.  So  long  as  the  word  God 
remains  in  language,  so  long  the  human  eye  will  be  raised  upward.  What  then  is 
religion  ?  Answer  the  question  in  prayer.  It  is  belief  in  God  ;  not  merely  a  percep- 
tion of  the  super-terrestrial  and  holy,  and  a  faith  in  the  unseen,  but  an  intuition  of 
the  same,  without  which  the  second  Universe,  the  realm  of  the  infinite  and  super- 
terrestrial,  cannot  even  be  imagined.  Take  God  away  from  the  heart,  and  all  which 
lies  above  or  behind  the  earth  becomes  only  the  earth  magnified,  and  the  supernatural 
itself  but  a  more  exalted  style  of  mechanism,  and  consequently  earthly. 

Religion  is  blessedness.  Without  God,  my  self,  the  /,  is  alone  in  eternity  ;  but 
grant  me  God,  and  I  have  an  union  more  tender,  strict  and  intimate  than  that  of 
friendship  or  love.  I  am  no  longer  alone  with  my  /.  My  uncreated  Friend,  the 
Infinite,  he  whom  I  know,  the  inborn  blood  relation  of  my  soul,  can  no  more  forsake 
me  than  I  can  myself.  Amid  the  impure  or  empty  whirl  of  trifles  and  sins,  on  the 
mart  of  commerce  and  the  field  of  battle,  I  stand  with  a  composed  spirit ;  within  me 
the  Most  High  and  All  Holy  is  speaking  ;  and  before  me  his  near  presence  rests  like  a 
sun  behind  which  the  outer  world  is  in  darkness.  I  enter  his  church,  this  earthly 
fabric,  and  remain  therein  happy  in  devout  contemplation,  though  the  temple  itself 
may  be  dark  and  cold  and  undermined  with  graves.  In  whatever  I  do  or  suflTer,  I 
can  no  more  present  an  oflTcring  to  him  than  I  can  make  one  to  myself.  Whether  I 
suffer  or  not,  I  simply  love  him.  The  flame  descends  from  heaven  upon  the  sacrificial 
altar  and  consumes  the  animal,  but  the  flame  and  the  priest  remain.  Will  my  Infinite 
Friend  accept  aught  from  me  ?  Then  glisten  heaven  and  earth  before  me  in  brightness, 
and  I  am  happy  as  himself.     Does  he  refuse  me  anything  ?     A  storm  is  on  my  ocean 

71 


THE    DIADEM. 

but  it  is  over-arched  with  a  rainbow,  and  I  well  know  that  the  blessed  sun  is  above, 
and  that  in  him  there  are  no  storm-clouds,  but  all  is  pure  radiance.  The  moral  law 
restrains  only  evil,  unloving  spirits,  by  first  improving  and  then  bringing  them  to 
goodness.  But  an  affectionate  regard  for  the  Infinite  Friend  of  the  soul,  who  originally 
inspired  that  law  and  rendered  it  irrefragable,  not  only  banishes  those  evil  thoughts 
which  obtain  the  victory,  but  even  those  also  which  only  tempt.  For  as  the  eagle 
soars  above  the  loftiest  mountains,  so  ever  simple  love  rises  high  above  the  steeps  of 
duty. 

If  then  there  be  no  wrong  in  contemplating  this  Being  of  Beings,  0  God,  how 
wilt  thou  first  manifest  thyself  in  the  solitary  silent  hour  of  death  to  those  who  have 
done  with  the  tumult  of  life,  when  world  after  world,  man  after  man  vanishes  away, 
and  nothing  remains  to  the  mortal  immortal,  but  the  eternal.'  He  for  whom  God  in 
the  last  darkest  night  enters  in,  cannot  experience  what  it  is  to  die,  because  he  gazes 
on  the  everlasting  star  in  the  abyss. 

But  how  is  the  child  to  be  introduced  into  this  new  world  of  religion  .'  Never 
by  proofs.  All  finite  knowledge  is  surmounted  step  by  step  through  teaching  ;  but  the 
infinite  itself,  comprising  all  the  degrees  of  the  finite,  must  be  displayed  at  once,  not 
gradually  counted  out;  we  reach  it  only  by  wings,  not  by  steps.  To  prove  or  to 
doubt  the  being  of  God,  is  to  prove  or  to  doubt  the  being  of  existence.  The  person, 
the  /,  seeks  an  original  I,  not  barely  a  primeval  world  besides  the  present,  but 
that  illimitable  freedom,  from  which  the  limited  derives  its  law.  But  this  could 
not  be  sought,  were  it  not  already  conceived  of,  and  in  a  degree  possessed.  The 
vastness  of  religion  is  confined  to  no  one  opinion,  but  spreads  itself  over  the  whole 
man,  as  a  range  of  mountain  summits  appears  of  equal  height,  when  no  one  of  them 
starts  up  separately  from  the  level  plain,  but  all  tower  from  other  kindred  ridges. 

Herder  proves  that  all  nations  originally  possess  ideas  of  religion.  And  does 
not  this  prove  something  more,  namely,  that  in  nations  as  well  as  individuals,  the 
ideal  precedes  the  real,  that  the  highest  lies  nearer  to  the  child  than  the  lowest,  inas- 
much as  the  former  is  within  him,  and  we  compute  time  by  the  stars  and  the  sun 
sooner  than  by  the  city  clock  ?  As  once  in  Paradise,  so  now  in  the  wilderness  the 
Deity  early  imparts  his  image  to  man,  who  himself  alone  discolors  and  defaces  it. — 
The  holy  ever  precedes  the  unholy.  Guilt  displaces  innocence.  Angels  were  created, 
not  fallen  ones.  Hence  man  cannot  properly  be  said  to  rise  to  the  highest ;  he  only 
returns  whither  he  first  descended.  He  can  never  think  too  much  of  the  innocence 
and  goodness  of  childhood.  If  the  entire  metaphysics  of  religion  did  not  sleep  dream- 
ing in  the  child,  how  could  we  impart  to  him  the  abstruse  ideas  of  infinity,  God, 
eternity,  holiness,  &c.,  which  we  have  nothing  to  express  but  empty  words,  serving 
not  to  create,  but  barely  to  awaken  his  thoughts.  Such  ideas  are  inward  tones,  like 
the  music  sometimes  heard  by  the  dying  and  persons  in  a  trance,  for  which  there  is  no 
outward  cause. 

72 


THOUGHTS. 


What  more  beautiful  season  is  there  for  implanting  the  holiest,  than  the  sacred 
one  of  Innocence— the  principle  which  is  to  operate  forever  in  that  period  of  life  when 
nothing  is  forgotten  ?  It  is  not  the  clouds  of  noon,  but  those  that  overspread  the 
morning  azure  which  decide  the  quality  of  the  day. 

Sublimity  is  the  stair-case  to  the  temple  of  religion,  as  the  stars  are  to  immensity. 
When  the  vast  is  manifested  in  nature,  as  in  a  storm,  thunder,  the  starry  firmament, 
death  then  utter  the  name  of  God  before  your  child.  Signal  calamity,  rare  success, 
a  great  crime,  a  noble  action  are  the  spots  upon  which  to  erect  the  child's  tabernacle 

of  worship.  ,     ,    ,    ,      i    r     v  • 

Always  exhibit  before  children,  even  upon  the  borders  of  the  holy  land  of  religion, 
solemn  and  devout  emotions.  These  will  extend  to  them,  unveiling  at  length  the 
object  by  which  they  are  excited,  though  at  the  beginning  they  are  awe-struck  with 
YOU  not  knowing  wherefore.  Newton,  who  uncovered  his  head  when  the  greatest 
ta  was  pronounced,  thus  became  without  words  a  teacher  of  religion  to  chddren. 
Instead  of  carrying  children  frequently  to  public  worship,  I  should  prefer  simply 
to  conduct  them  upon  great  days  in  nature  or  in  human  life  into  the  empty  church, 
and  there  show  them  the  holy  place  of  adults.  To  this  I  might  add  twilight,  night, 
the  orcran,  the  hymn,  the  priest,  exhortation ;  and  so  by  a  mere  walk  through  the 
buildin-  a  more  serious  impression  might  remain  in  their  young  hearts  than  after  a 
whole  year  of  common  church  routine.  Let  every  hour  in  which  their  hearts  are 
consecrated  to  religion,  be  to  them  as  absorbing  as  that  in  which  they  partake  for  the 
first  time  of  the  Lord's  supper.  •       ,      . 

Let  the  Protestant  child  show  reverence  to  the  catholic  images  of  saints  by  the 
road  side— the  same  as  to  the  ancient  Druidical  oak  of  his  ancestors.  Let  him  as 
lovingly  accept  different  forms  of  religion  among  men,  as  different  languages,  wherein 
there°is  still  but  one  human  mind  expressed.  Every  genius  has  most  power  in  his 
own  tongue,  and  every  heart  in  its  own  religion. 

Susceptibility  of  the  senses  in  children.— Who  has  not  felt  with  me,  that 
frequently  a  rural  nosegay,  which  was  our  delight  when  we  were  children  in  the 
village,  through  its  old  fragrance  produces  for  us  in  cities,  in  the  advanced  years  of 
manhood,  an  indescribably  rapturous  return  to  godlike  childhood,  and  like  a  flowery 
divinity  wafts  us  upward  to  the  first  encircling  Aurora-cloud  of  our  earliest  obscure 
sensations.  But  could  such  a  remembrance  so  forcibly  surprise  us,  were  not  the 
child's  perception  of  flowers  most  powerful  and  interior.' 

Joyousness  of  Children.— How  should  it  be  otherwise  ?  I  can  bear  a  melan- 
choly man,  but  never  a  melancholy  child.  Into  whatever  quagmire  the  former  sinks, 
he  may  raise  his  eyes  either  to  the  realm  of  reason  or  to  that  of  hope ;  but  the 
little  child  sinks  and  perishes  in  a  single  black  poison-drop  of  the  present  time.— 
Only  imagine  a  child  conducted  to  the  scaffold-Cupid  in  a  German  coffin-or  fancy 

73 


THE    DIADEM. 

a  butterfly  crawling  like  a  caterpillar  with  his  four  wings  pulled  off,  and  you  will  feel 
what  I  mean. 

Joy,  or  cheerfulness,  is  the  heaven  under  which  everything,  except  poison,  thrives. 
But  we  must  not  confound  it  with  pleasure.  Every  pleasure,  even  the  refined  one  of 
wit,  imparts  an  emotion  of  selfishness  and  takes  away  sympathy;  hence  pleasure  is  the 
condition  of  want,  not  of  virtue.  Cheerfulness,  on  the  contrary — the  opposite  of 
peevishness  and  sadness — is  both  soil,  blossom  and  garland  to  virtue.  The  brutes 
may  enjoy  pleasure,  but  man  only  can  be  cheerful.  A  mournful  God  is  a  contra- 
diction, or  the  devil.  The  wise  man  of  the  Stoics  united  the  contempt  of  pleasure 
to  cheerfulness.  The  Christian  heaven  promises,  not  pleasure,  like  the  Turkish, 
but  a  clear,  pure,  infinite  aether  of  heavenly  joy,  welling  forth  from  the  vision  of  the 
Eternal. 

Joy. — This  feeling  of  a  whole  free  life  and  being,  this  self-satisfaction  in  the 
inner  world,  not  in  the  outer  world-fragment,  opens  before  the  child  the  in-pressing 
Universe — it  furnishes  him  with  defences  and  affections  for  the  reception  of  nature, 
and  permits  all  his  young  energies  to  rise  like  morning  stars  and  revel  with  themselves 
and  with  the  world  ;  it  imparts  to  them  strength,  and  banishes  despondency.  It  is  a 
pretty  tradition  that  the  Virgin  Mary  and  the  poet  Tasso,  when  children,  never 
wept. 

Toys. — You  need  not  surround  your  children  like  those  of  the  nobility,  with  a 
little  world  of  turner's  toys.  Let  their  eggs  be  white,  not  figured  and  painted  ;  they 
can  dress  them  out  of  their  own  imaginations.  On  the  contrary,  the  older  man  grows, 
the  larger  reality  appears.  The  fields  which  glisten  for  the  young  with  the  morning 
dew  of  love's  brightness,  chill  the  gray,  half-blind  old  man  with  heavy  evening 
damps,  and  at  last  he  requires  an  entire  world,  even  the  second,  barely  to  livj  in. 

Faith. — This  faith  most  richly  manifests  its  glorious  worth,  when  directed  to 
moral  subjects.  Upon  these  the  heart  is  quickened  into  a  true  bliss-giving  Faith. — 
In  matters  of  literature,  they  (children)  take  your  word,  in  those  of  morality  they 
rather  believe  on  you  ;  as  lovers  believe  one  another,  friend  believes  on  friend,  the 
noble  spirit  believes  in  humanity,  and  the  saint  in  the  Deity — this  makes  the  Peter's 
rock  and  sure  foundation  of  human  excellence — he  who  truly  confides,  shows  that  he 
has  seen  the  moral  Deity  face  to  face  ;  and  there  is  perhaps  on  earth  no  higher  moral 
pleasure,  than,  when  feeling  and  evidence  combine  to  cast  your  friend  out  of  your 
heart,  to  stand  by  him  with  the  divinity  within  you,  and  cleave  to  him  and  love  him, 
not  as  before,  but  even  more  strongly.  And  since  this  faith  is  the  holy  spirit  in  man, 
to  be  false  to  it  is  the  sin  against  the  Holy  Ghost.  Platner  maintains  that  the  weaker 
the  brain,  the  more  easy  is  belief,  as  for  instance,  in  drunkards,  sick  women  and 

74 


THOUGHTS. 

children.  But  a  question  here  occurs,  namely,  whether  this  weakness  (physical  only) 
which  gives  scope  to  so  many  delicate  developments  of  the  heart,  as,  for  example,  to 
love,  religion,  poetry,  &c.,  be  not  the  true  preparative  for  the  highest  degree  of  holi- 
ness, though  at  the  expense  of  the  other  faculties. 

I  return  to  the  faith  of  children — guard  it  sacredly,  for  without  it  there  can  be  no 
education.  Forget  not  that  the  little  benighted  child  looks  up  to  you  as  his  great 
genius  and  apostle,  full  of  inspiration — that  he  believes  in  you  implicitly,  and  that  the 
falsehood  of  an  apostle  must  lay  waste  a  whole  moral  world.  Do  not  therefore  under- 
mine your  infallibility  by  unnecessary  proofs,  or  by  confessions  of  having  been 
mistaken — least  of  all  prop  religion  and  morality  with  arguments  ;  because  a  multitude 
of  pillars  darkens  and  narrows  a  church.  Let  the  divine  within  yourself  turn  (without 
the  aid  of  inferences  and  conclusions),  to  the  divine  within  the  child.  His  faith,  like 
a  precursor  of  morality,  bringing  down  from  heaven  the  letters  patent  of  man's 
nobility,  opens  his  little  bosom  to  your  large  heart.  To  injure  that  faith,  would  be 
committing  the  fault  of  Calvin,  when  he  banished  music  from  churches;  for  faith  is 
the  echo  of  the  super-terrestrial  music  of  the  spheres. 

Think  too  that  at  your  last  hour,  when  all  is  fading  and  dying  out  of  the  dissolving 
spirit — imagination,  thought,  effort,  pleasure  :  the  night  blossom  of  faith  alone  will 
then  be  living,  and  refresh  with  its  fragrance  your  last  darkness. 

Languages. — Do  not  torment  your  pupil  with  a  thousand  tongues.  The  mere 
learning  of  languages  is  like  expending  one's  money  in  the  purchase  of  fine  purses,  or 
learning  the  Paternoster  in  every  tongue,  but  never  praying  with  it. 

Happy  Fathers. — Two  classes  of  men  are  happy  fathers.  The  first  is  a  country 
gentleman,  who  enjoys  such  golden  means  of  exemption  from  other  occupations,  that 
his  rural  mansion  can  be  a  benevolent  asylum  for  his  children  ;  since  not  even  cards, 
hares,  or  rents  are  dearer  to  him  than  his  posterity.  The  other  is  a  country  minister 
— the  six  days  leisure,  the  rural  seclusion  from  the  whirl  of  cities,  the  free  air,  the 
office  itself,  which  is  a  higher  school  of  education,  and  on  every  seventh  day  presents 
to  the  children  their  dear  father  upon  a  glorious  elevation,  as  the  pastor  and  the  saint, 
thus  impressing  the  seal  of  office  upon  the  instructions  of  the  week — all  this  opens  to 
the  clergyman  an  arena  for  education,  into  which  he  may  introduce  with  advantage 
other  children,  as  well  as  his  own. 

Female  Delicacy. — Boys  may  derive  advantage  from  the  evil  example  of  drunken 
Helots  ;  girls  should  witness  only  what  is  good.  Even  boys  do  not  come  forth  from 
the  Augean  stable  of  world-discipline  without  some  smell  of  the  barn.  But  girls  are 
tender,  white,  Paris-apple  blo.ssoms,  parlor  flowers,  whose  delicate  freshness  cannot 
bear  to  be  handled,  but  may  only  be  touched  with  the  finest  brush.  Like  the  priestesses 
of  antiquity,  they  should  be  brought  up  only  in  holy  places  ;  the  harsh,  the  indecorous, 
the  violent,  they  may  not  hear,  far  less  behold. 

75 


THE    DIADEM. 

Sewing. — Most  of  the  finger-works,  whereby  the  female  quicksilver  is  made  sta- 
tionary, bring  with  them  this  mischief— the  mind,  remaining  idle,  either  grows  rusty 
with  dullness,  or  is  given  over  to  the  circling  maze  of  fancy  where  wave  succeeds  to 
wave.  Sewing  and  knitting  needles,  for  instance,  keep  open  the  wounds  of  disap- 
pointed love  longer  than  all  the  romances  in  the  world  ;  they  are  thorns  which  prick 
through  the  drooping  roses.  But  give  the  young  girl  such  an  occupation  as  young 
men  generally  have,  which  shall  require  a  new  thought  every  minute,  and  the  old  one 
cannot  be  continually  raying  up  and  glaring  before  her.  Especially,  change  of 
employment  contributes  to  heal  woman's  heart,  constant  progress  in  some  one  thing 


The  Ideal. — Ye  holy  matrons  of  by-gone  times !  As  little  did  ye  know  of  the 
ideal  heart,  as  of  the  circulation  of  the  pure  blood  which  warmed  and  colored  you 
when  ye  cried,  "  I  do  this  for  my  husband,  for  my  children,"  and  appeared  in 
prosaic  subjection  to  your  cares  and  pursuits.  Yet  that  holy  Ideal  was  passing  through 
you,  as  heaven's  fire  descends  to  the  earth  through  clouds. 

Merrevient. — Is  there  anything  in  life  so  lovely  and  poetical  as  the  laugh  and 
merriment  of  a  young  girl,  who  still  in  harmony  with  all  her  powers  sports  with  you 
in  luxuriant  freedom,  and  in  her  mirthfulness  neither  despises  nor  dislikes.''  Her 
gravity  is  seldom  as  innocent  as  her  playfulness  ;  still  less  that  haughty  discontent 
which  converts  the  youthful  Psyche  into  a  dull,  thick,  buzzing,  wing-drooping  night- 
moth.  Among  a  certain  Indian  tribe  the  youth  selected  at  a  feast  that  maiden  for 
marriage  who  laughed  in  her  sport ;  perhaps  my  opinion  inclines  the  same  way. 

Laughing  cheerfulness  throws  day-light  upon  all  the  paths  of  life ;  discontent 
blows  her  ill-omened  vapors  from  afar ;  depression  produces  more  confusion  and  dis- 
traction of  thought  than  the  above  named  giddiness.  If,  indeed,  the  wife  could 
stereotype  this  comedy  by  playing  it  in  wedded  life,  and  sometimes  enliven  the  dull 
epic  of  the  husband  or  hero,  by  her  own  comic-heroic  poetry,  she  would  enjoy  the 
delight  of  winning  and  enchanting  both  husband  and  children.  Never  fear  that 
feminine  playfulness  will  exclude  depth  of  character  and  sensibility — the  still  energy 
of  the  heart  is  ever  growing  and  filling  itself  beneath  the  outward  glee.  How  hea- 
venly, when  at  length  for  the  first  time  the  laughing  eye  melts  in  love,  and  gushing 
tears  mirror  forth  the  whole  tender  soul ! 

Let  then  the  laughter-loving  creatures  giggle  on  at  one  another,  and  especially  at 
the  first  clumsy  make-game  wight  who  comes  among  them,  even  should  he  be  the 
writer  of  this  paragraph. 

God. — We  find  God  twice,  inwardly  and  outwardly — within,  he  is  like  an  eye ; 
without,  he  is  light. 

Dreams. — Upon  meeting  with  new  prospects,  occurrences,  persons,  who  of  us 

76 


THOUGHTS. 

has  not  sometimes  found  deep  within  himself  a  mirror,  in  which  these  same  objects 
appeared  dimly  reflected  as  from  a  remote  time  ;  also  in  dreams  and  fevers,  have  not 
hideous  faces  and  serpents,  known  as  it  were  of  old,  seemed  to  come  back  to  us, 
whereof  we  have  no  recollection  in  actual  life  ?  Is  it  not  probable  that  these 
creations  are  dark  reminiscences  of  the  ancient  dreams  of  childhood,  which  rise  in  the 
night  like  sea-raonsters  from  the  deep  ? 

Truth. — Truthfulness  is  not  so  much  a  branch  as  a  blossom  of  moral,  manly 
strength.  The  weak,  whether  they  will  or  not,  must  lie.  As  respects  children,  for 
the  first  five  years  they  utter  neither  truth  nor  falsehood — they  only  speak.  Their 
talk  is  thinking  aloud ;  and  as  one  half  of  their  thought  is  often  an  affirmative,  and 
the  other  a  negative,  and,  unlike  us,  both  escape  from  them,  they  seem  to  lie, 
while  they  are  only  talking  with  themselves.  Besides,  at  first  they  love  to  sport  with 
their  new  art  of  speech  ;  and  so  talk  nonsense  merely  to  hear  themselves.  Often  they 
do  not  understand  your  question,  and  give  an  erroneous,  rather  than  a  false  reply. — 
We  may  ask,  besides,  whether,  when  children  seem  to  imagine  and  falsify,  they  are  not 
often  relating  their  remembered  dreams,  which  necessarily  blend  in  them  with  actual 
experience. 

Children  everywhere  fly  on  the  warm,  sunny-side  of  hope.  They  say,  when  the 
bird  or  the  dog  has  escaped  from  them,  without  any  reason  for  the  expectation — '  he 
will  come  back  again  soon.'  And  since  they  are  incapable  of  distinguishing  hope, 
that  is,  imagination,  from  reflection  or  truth,  their  self-delusion  consequently  assumes 
the  appearance  of  falsehood.  For  instance,  a  truthful  little  girl  described  to  me 
various  appearances  of  a  Christ-child,  telling  what  it  had  said  and  done.  In  all  those 
cases  in  which  we  do  not  desire  to  mirror  before  the  child,  the  black  image  of  a  lie, 
it  issuflicient  to  say,  '  be  sober,  have  done  with  play.' 

Finally,  we  must  distinguish  between  untruths  relating  to  the  future  and  the  past. 
We  do  not  attribute  to  a  grown  man  who  breaks  his  word  in  reference  to  some  future 
performance,  that  blackness  of  perjury  which  we  charge  on  him  who  falsifies  what  has 
been  already  done  ;  so  with  children,  before  whose  brief  vision,  time,  like  space,  is 
immeasurable,  and  who  are  as  unable  to  look  through  a  day,  as  we  through  a  year, 
we  should  widely  separate  untruthfulness  of  promise  from  untruthfulness  of  assertion. 
Truth  is  a  divine  blossom  upon  an  earthly  root ;  of  course,  it  is  in  time  not  the 
earliest,  but  the  latest  virtue. 

Secrecy. — Require  no  child  within  the  first  six  years  to  keep  a  secret,  even 
though  it  relate  to  some  pleasure  which  you  arc  privately  preparing  for  a  loved  one  ; 
nothing  should  veil  the  clear  sky  of  childish  frankness — not  even  the  rosy  cloud  of 
bashfulness — else  he  will  soon  learn  to  add  his  own  secrets  to  yours.  The  hero- virtue 
of  secrecy  requires  for  its  exercise  the  energy  of  mature  reason,  for  reason  alone  teaches 
silence,  the  heart  prompts  to  utterance. 

u  77 


THE    DIADEM. 

The  Classics. — The  bulwarks  around  the  city  of  God  liave  been  laid  by  the 
ancients  for  every  age,  through  the  history  of  their  own.  Manhood  at  the  present  day 
vould  sink  immeasurably  low,  did  not  our  youth  pass  through  the  still  temple  of  the 
great  old  times  and  men,  as  a  vestibule  to  the  crowded  Fair  of  modern  life.  The 
names  of  Socrates,  Cato,  Epaminondas,  &c.,  are  pyramids  of  human  energy.  Rome, 
Athens,  Sparta,  are  three  coronation  cities  of  the  giant  Geryon,  which  like  primeval 
mountains  of  humanity,  grapple  with  youthful  manhood,  while  modern  ones  only 
attract  the  eye. 

School  Discipline. — Among  all  the  schoolmasters  who  have  cudgelled  the  writer 
or  readers  of  these  pages,  and  who  have  understood  the  art  of  imparting  knowledge  by- 
the  cane,  as  a  pedagogical  socket  lantern  or  lantern  post  ;  or  with  the  fist,  like  players 
upon  Ihe  French  horn,  who  thus  elicit  the  sweetest  tones  from  that  instrument — among 
them  all,  few  may  compare  with  John  Jacob  Haiiberle.  Who  among  us  can  boast  as 
Haiiberle  of  having  administered  during  the  fifty-one  years  and  seven  months  that  he 
exercised  the  office  of  schoolmaster,  911,527  blows  with  the  cudgel,  and  124,000 
stripes  with  the  rod — added  to  these,  20,989  strokes  with  the  ferule,  10,235  slaps  on 
the  chops,  aided  by  the  accompaniment  of  7,905  cuffs  on  the  ears,  and  upon  the  head, 
in  all  one  million,  and  115,800  raps  with  the  knuckles.  Who  like  Jacob  Haiiberle 
has  beaten  a  tattoo  of  22,763  nota  benes,  sometimes  with  the  Bible,  sometimes  with 
the  catechism,  sometimes  with  the  hymn  book,  sometimes  with  the  grammar,  as  the 
four  syllogistic  modes  of  proof ;  or  has  executed  sonatas  upon  all  fours.'  Did  not  this 
same  Jacob  hold  the  rod  over  1,707  children  without  laying  it  upon  them  ?  Did  he 
not  make  777  walk  with  their  knees  upon  hard  peas,  and  631  upon  a  sharp  wooden 
prism,  and  did  not  his  page-corps  consist  of  5,001  ass-bearers  .'  Had  any  other  school- 
master emulated  the  fame  of  Jacob,  it  is  probable  he  would  have  kept  a  similar 
cudgel-register,  martyrology,  or  record  of  school-club  discipline.  But  it  may  be 
greatly  feared  that  the  generality  of  teachers  merit  only  the  name  applied  in  scorn  to 
Caesarius,  who  was  surnamed  the  Mild,  because  he  enacted  that  no  nun  should  receive 
over  six  and  thirty  stripes. 

Morality. — The  penal  morality  of  some  of  the  moderns  pleases  me  as  little  as  their 
relative,  sanguinary  theologj'.  When  the  Creator  provided  pleasure  for  the  whole 
animal  world  at  every  stage  of  their  progress  in  preserving  and  continuing  their  species, 
must  the  king  of  life,  poor  Man,  whose  conscience  indeed  keeps  his  wounds  open 
longer,  perpetually  seek  the  thorns  and  shun  the  roses,  and  aping  the  howling  monkey, 
must  he  enact  the  everlasting  burden-carrier  and  penance-doer  of  creation  ? — And  will 
you  call  this  pining  and  dreaming,  and  hell-antichamber  life,  the  Christian  preparation 
for  everlasting  happiness  .■* 

Upon  the  mount  of  religion,  man  may  indeed  still  have  sorrows,  but  they  are 
brief.  The  nights  linger  in  valleys,  but  on  the  mountains  they  are  shortened,  and 
ever  a  small  red  streak  points  towards  the  rising  day. 

78 


THOUGHTS. 

Reverence  for  Life. — Only  place  all  life  before  the  child,  as  within  the  realm 
of  humanity,  and  thus  the  greater  reveals  to  him  the  less.  Put  life  and  soul  into  every 
thing:  describe  to  him  even  the  lily,  which  he  would  pull  up  as  an  unorganised  thing, 
as  the  daughter  of  a  slender  mother,  standing  in  her  garden-bed,  from  whom  her  little 
white  offspring  derives  nutriment  and  moisture.  And  let  not  this  be  done  to  excite 
an  empty  enervated  habit  of  pity,  a  sort  of  inoculation-hospital  for  foreign  pains,  but 
from  the  religious  cultivation  of  reverence  for  life,  the  God  all-moving  in  the  tree-top 
and  the  human  brain.  The  love  of  animals,  like  maternal  affection  has  this  advantage, 
that  it  is  disinterested  and  claims  no  return,  and  can  also  at  every  moment  find  an 
object  and  an  opportunity  for  its  exercise. 

Children. — What  indeed  then  are  children  properly  ?  It  is  only  our  familiarity 
with  them  and  their  wants,  which  so  often  importune  us,  that  veils  the  charm  of  these 
spirit-forms  for  which  we  cannot  find  words  of  sufficient  beauty,  although  we  call 
them  blossoms,  dew-drops,  stars  and  butterflies.  Yet  when  you  kiss  and  caress  them, 
you  apply  and  feel  all  their  names.  A  first  child  upon  the  earth  would  appear  to  us 
like  some  wondrous  angel  from  afar ;  unaccustomed  to  our  foreign  language,  mien  and 
atmosphere,  he  would  look  on  us  silent  and  observing,  but  like  a  celestial  shrine,  a 
true  Raphael  Jesus-child.  Thus  daily  are  these  pure  beings  sent  from  the  silent, 
unknown  world  into  this  wild  earth  ;  and  they  land  sometimes  on  slave-coasts,  battle- 
fields or  prisons ;  sometimes  in  blooming  valleys  and  pure  Alpine  heights  ;  sometimes 
in  the  most  immoral,  sometimes  in  the  most  devout  ages  ;  and  they  seek,  after  having 
lost  their  only  Father,  one  that  will  adopt  them  here  below. 


LIN  ES 

OK    READING     SOME    VERSES     ENTITLED     '' A     FAREWELL    TO     LOrE" 
BY     AXXE     C.     LTNCB. 

Oh,  stem  indeed  must  be  that  minstrel's  heart 
In  tlie  world's  dusty  highway  doomed  to  move, 

Who  with  life's  sunshine  and  its  flowers  can  part, 
Who  strikes  his  harp  and  sings  Farewell  to  Love. 

To  Love!  that  beam  that  colors  all  our  light. 
As  the  red  rays  illume  the  light  of  day, 

Whose  rose-hue,  once  extinguished  from  the  sight, 
Leaves  the  life-landscape  of  a  dull,  cold  gray. 

To  Love  !  the  ethereal,  the  Promethean  spirit, 
That  bids  this  dust  with  life  divine  be  moved  ; 

The  only  memory  that  we  still  inherit 

Of  the  lost  Eden  where  our  parents  roved. 

Oh,  hopeless  bard !  recall  that  farewell  strain, 
Nor  from  thy  breast  let  this  fond  faith  depart. 

Recall  that  utterance  of  thy  cold  disdain. 

Thy  doubt  of  Love,  the  atheism  of  the  heart. 


GENIUS. 

Genius  is  attiibuled  to  individuals  with  so  little  discrimination,  that  it  is  fair 
to  presume  that  no  very  definite  idea  generally  exists  as  to  what  it  specially  is. 
Whenever  any  one  delights  us  by  the  production  of  an  unexpected  effect  in  the  arts, 
in  literature,  or  in  affairs,  in  our  gratitude  for  the  pleasure  we  receive  we  instantly 
pronounce  him  a  man  of  genius,  never  pausing  to  consider  whether  his  success  is  to 
be  ascribed  to  a  mere  sleight  of  hand,  to  the  favor  of  circumstances,  or  to  the  native 
force  of  his  own  mind. 

Genius  is  original  power,  the  free  gift  of  Nature,  the  inspiration  of  God,  not  the 
product  of  Art,  but  the  producer  of  Art ;  not  communicated  by  books  and  schools,  it 
makes  books  and  schools ;  not  manufactured  by  any  ingenious  apparatus  of  education. 
It  is  the  native  force,  or  life  of  the  mind  for  the  manifestation  of  which  the  best 
arranged  circumstances  may  only  furnish  an  opportunity.  They  cannot  create  it.  As 
was  long  ago  said  of  the  poet,  we  may  affirm  of  genius  universally :  it  is  not  made 
like  clock-work,  but  is  born  and  grows,  grows  by  the  inscrutable  vitality  of  nature. 
One  may  plant,  and  another  water,  but  God  alone  gives  the  increase.  Our  agricul- 
ture assists  the  seed  to  germinate,  but,  be  it  ever  so  skilful,  it  cannot  make  a  single 
grain  of  wheat,  or  one  blade  of  grass.  The  best  systems  of  intellectual  culture  are  to 
Genius  what  our  mechanic  contrivances  are  to  the  wells  from  which  they  are  used  to 
draw  water,  useful,  indispensable.  But  they  cannot  cause  a  spring  to  appear  where 
there  is  none.  However  great  their  power,  and  with  whatever  accuracy  they  work, 
they  cannot  draw  up  what  is  not  in  the  well. 

A  great  poem  or  a  great  painting  is  not  the  highest  work  of  genius,  but  a  great 
life.  The  pen,  the  brush  and  the  chisel  are  not  its  finest  implements.  The  living 
heart  and  the  strong  hand,  these  are  its  most  miraculous  organs.  And  he,  who  works 
with  heart  and  hand  to  fashion  his  own  hfe,  so  that  it  becomes  the  record  of  a  great 
principle,  engraving  itself  on  the  hearts  of  all  men,  or  the  representation  of  a  beautiful 
truth,  ravishing  the  world  ;— he  is,  in  the  best  sense  of  the  word,  the  man  of  gemus. 
He  illustrates  in  the  most  impressive  manner  the  mysterious  power  of  nature.  If  so, 
then  human  life  in  its  humblest  form  is,  in  a  sense,  a  work  of  genius  more  or  less 
complete.  For,  to  maintain  existence,  to  continue  to  live  amidst  the  countless 
obstructions  in  the  way  of  life,  requires  and  indicates  some  natural  force— force  to 
know  or  do  something,  be  it  ever  so  little,  be  it  only  the  faculty  of  doing  as  others  do. 
In  no  case  is  life  altogether  and  throughout  artificial  and  mechanical.  There  is  always 
disclosed  to  some  extent  the  agency  of  an  invisible  power,  resident  in  man's  being, 
not  acquired  by  him,  but  born  with  him.  However  intimately  we  investigate  our 
physical  and  intellectual  structure,  however  distinctly  true  its  curious  mechanism,  we 
y  81 


THE    DIADEM. 

always  come  at  last  upon  a  power,  of  which  we  know  but  little  save  that  it  is,  and  that 
it  is  divine.  This  original  force  of  nature  revealed  in  all  men,  "  inspiring  the  human 
soul  of  universal  earth,"  although  it  does  not  receive  the  name  of  Genius,  but  is 
known  by  more  homely  designations,  still  is  of  the  essence  thereof  and  makes  the 
least  kindred  to  the  greatest.  The  existence  of  this  innate  power,  this  vital  force,  is 
often  overlooked. 

Does  not  the  whole  business  of  education,  as  it  is  frequently  carried  on,  betray  a 
forgetfulness  of  the  free  force  of  the  mind  ?  Does  it  not  testify  to  the  absence  of  a 
generous  trust  in  the  vital  activity  of  the  intellectual  nature  ?  Is  there  not  more  soli- 
citude shown  to  impart  information,  which  is  a  speedy  process,  than  to  stimulate  "  the 
o'er-informing  power,"  which  is  difficult?  We  think  comparatively  little  of  the  living 
mind  of  the  teacher,  whereby  alone  the  living  mind  of  the  pupil  can  be  most  effectu- 
ally aroused  ;  and  all  our  industry  is  directed  to  the  multiplication  of  books  and  the 
implements  of  tuition,  to  the  perfecting  of  the  machinery  of  education ;  so  that  one 
day  or  another,  as  seems  to  be  the  hope,  it  shall  be  so  complete  as  to  answer  every 
purpose  and  work  to  admiration  almost  of  itself.  Fortune  may  turn  her  back  upon 
her  favorites,  still,  when  the  worst  comes  to  the  worst,  although  they  may  be  qualified 
for  nothing  else,  they  can  always  keep  school.  In  fine,  are  we  not  in  danger  of 
forgetting  that  the  mind  is  alive,  a  wondrous,  indeed  the  most  wonderful  of  all  living 
things,  with  a  living  root,  penetrating  far  down  into  unfathomable  depths  of  life,  and 
able  to  germinate  and  bring  forth  fruit  of  itself,  and  do  we  not  often  treat  it,  as  if  it 
•were  a  mere  dead  post  set  up  in  the  world  with  no  root,  upon  which  numberless 
branches  of  knowledge,  as  they  are  termed,  may  by  some  thread  of  memory  be 
fastened,  so  that  it  shall  have  all  the  semblance  of  a  fruitful  tree  ? 

Amidst  our  elaborate  systems  and  methods,  it  is  beautiful  to  see  how  nature,  in 
her  own  way  and  by  her  own  simple  means  vindicates  her  power,  the  intrinsic  vitality 
of  the  intellect,  the  divine  force  of  Genius,  and  lays  bare  her  treasures.  While  we 
stand  patiently  waiting  around  our  costly  mechanism  of  education  for  the  grandest 
results,  expecting  to  be  overwhelmed  by  their  magnificence,  silently  out  of  some 
obscure  corner,  some  despised  Nazareth,  the  great  artist,  poet  or  philosopher  emerges, 
and  mighty  in  the  exuberance  of  Genius,  comes  forward  and  seizes  and  carries  onward 
the  best  interests  of  our  race,  owing  little  thanks  to  any  of  the  world's  institutions. — 
To  mention  an  instance  in  point.  Some  two  hundred  years  ago  or  less,  in  an  English 
school-room,  there  was  an  idle  boy,  upon  whom  the  voice,  the  awful  eye  and  the 
rod  of  the  master  had  little  effect  to  make  him  diligent,  and  he  gave  no  indication 
of  power.  But  another  and  larger  boy  selects  this  little  fellow  as  the  victim  of  his 
petty  tyranny,  pouring  upon  him  not  only  contempt  but  violence  and  blows.  Me- 
thinks  I  see  the  tears  coursing  down  his  cheeks  as  he  mourns  over  his  bruises  and 
his  shame.  I  hear  him  murmuring  to  himself,  "  What  shall  I  do  ?  How  shall  I  be 
revenged  ?  I  cannot  pay  my  tormentor  back  in  his  own  coin,  he  is  so  much  bigger 
than  I.  This  will  I  do,"  (and  the  boy's  eye  gleams  with  the  anticipated  triumph,) 
"  I  will  bestir  myself  and  get  above  him.     I  will  say  my  lessons  better,  and  so  look 

82 


GENIUS. 

down  upon  him."  And  he  did  bestir  himself  indeed,  with  the  whole  Solar  System  for 
a  witness,  and  he  left  not  only  his  little  tyrant,  but  the  whole  school,  master  and  all, 
aye,  and  all  mankind  behind  him.  The  laws  of  the  planetary  motions  are  revealed. 
The  light  of  heaven  is  arrested  and  analysed  ;  and  the  name  of  Isaac  Newton  fills  the 
world.  Such  was  the  ignoble  discipline,  by  which,  as  his  last  eminent  biographer 
informs  us,  '  the  noble  rage'  of  this  master-spirit  was  kindled  ; — not  the  time-honored 
ferule,  not  the  venerable  birch,  but  the  fist  and  foot  of  a  tyrannical  school-boy,  very 
unclassical  instruments  of  education  certainly,  not  recognised  by  any  means,  as  a  part 
of  the  indispensable  furniture  of  a  school  room. 

Let  me  not  be  thought  to  undervalue  schools  and  libraries,  and  all  our  noble 
means  for  the  encouragement  of  learning.  I  share  in  the  common  hope  of  seeing 
these  multiplied  throughout  the  world.  But,  then,  in  the  abundance  of  our  institu- 
tions, and  the  perfection  and  ingenuity  of  our  systems,  we  must  not  forget  that  the 
mind  is  not  a  manufacture,  but  a  natural  growth,  which  our  artificial  methods,  how- 
ever admirable,  cannot  reach,  unless  they  are  animated  and  made  effe'ctive  by  a  living 
soul.  The  quality  and  spirit  of  the  teacher  must  not  be  lost  sight  of,  behind  the 
imposing  array  of  his  apparatus.  The  steam-engine  can  do  wonders,  but  it  will  not 
answer  all  purposes.  It  may  make  books,  but  it  cannot  make  men,  desirable  as  it 
might  seem,  on  many  accounts,  in  this  mechanical  age,  to  gel  rid  of  man  as  God  made 
him,  as  an  old-fashioned  clumsy  contrivance,  and  substitute  in  his  place  steam-men  and 
steam-women,  who  would  serve  all  purposes  of  handicraft,  and  some  of  the  lighter 
kinds  of  head-work.  The  saving  would  be  great,  for  when  they  were  disabled,  they 
would  need  no  charity,  but  might  be  sold  for  old  iron,  and  so  bring  us  in  a  penny. 

But  to  return.  Another  instance  of  the  irrecognition  of  the  natural  force,  the 
native  insight  of  the  mind,  is  afforded  by  our  popular  methods  of  scientific  inquiry, 
by  a  too  rigid  application  of  the  philosophy  of  Bacon.  It  was  a  splendid  revolution 
which  he  achieved,  and  its  results  are  most  imposing.  The  value  of  that  method  of 
philosophising,  which  promulgates  as  a  primary  law,  the  observation  of  facts  is  beyond 
all  dispute,  immense.  But  are  we  not  liable  to  forget  that  something — much,  depends 
upon  the  observing  faculty,  as  well  as  upon  the  thing  observed.  In  the  acquisition  of 
science,  not  only  the  fact  presented,  but  the  eye  with  which  we  look  at  it,  is  concerned. 
"  Prudens  quajstio,  dimidium  scientire,"  says  the  illustrious  father  of  our  philosophy. 
'  A  shrewd  question  is  half  of  the  answer.'  But  whence  comes  the  shrewdness  ? 
What  is  it  but  the  native  force,  the  natural  gift,  the  mother-wit,  if  you  please,  of  the 
mind,  the  eye  of  the  mind,  which  penetrates  the  visible  facts,  and  discerns  the  invisible 
law  which  it  illustrates.'  Without  this  natural  faculty  of  intuition,  that  is,  of  looking 
in,  and  through  and  beyond  what  meets  the  bodily  eye,  all  the  facts  in  the  world  are  of 
no  avail.  And  with  it,  when  it  exists  in  an  extraordinary  degree,  as  sometimes  in  Hea- 
ven's bountiful  providence  it  does,  a  single  fact,  and  that  tlie  slightest,  be  it  only  the 
falling  of  an  apple,  is  enough  to  lay  bare  whole  fields  of  knowledge. 

How  abundantly  does  the  history  of  science  attest  the  presence  of  this  divine 
force,  the  inborn  energy  of  the  mind !     What  brought  Columbus  over  the  briny  waste 

83 


THE    DIADEM. 

in  search  of  this  western  world  ?  Was  it  a  sound  logical  deduction,  the  unavoidable 
result  of  a  close  observation  of  numerous  and  decisive  facts  ?  Now  indeed,  when 
we  know  that  he  came  on  no  useless  errand,  the  conviction,  by  which  he  was  impelled, 
seems  obvious  enough.  It  is  easy  enough  to  make  the  egg  stand  up  now.  But  then, 
it  was  quite  another  thing.  True,  the  great  idea  had  dawned  on  other  minds ;  but 
on  what  imperfect  grounds,  vague  reports  of  northern  seamen,  guesses  of  ancient 
authors,  and  loose  general  probabilities.  Accordingly  the  belief  in  the  existence  of 
land  in  the  west,  as  it  existed  in  other  minds,  was  very  faint.  But,  from  these  insuffi- 
cient hints,  the  mind  of  the  great  navigator  leaped  to  the  sublime  conception,  and 
clung  to  it  with  a  grasp,  which  the  contempt  of  the  learned,  and  the  indifference  of 
princes  could  not  relax.  When  he  announced  it  as  a  thing  to  be  realised,  a  practi- 
cable scheme,  his  pretensions  to  science  were  ridiculed.  He  was  pronounced  a 
visionary,  and  the  learned  council  of  Salamanca  declared  his  project  to  be  "  vain, 
impracticable,  resting  upon  grounds  too  weak  to  merit  the  support  of  government." 
But  he  would  acquiesce  in  no  such  decision.  He  had  no  further  argument  to  offer, 
no  new  evidence  to  produce.  But  there  was  in  him  a  natural  force  of  conviction,  of 
faith,  of  character,  of  genius,  whatever  you  choose  to  call  it ;  and  in  this  one  matter, 
he  knew  that  he  was  born  not  to  be  dictated  to,  but  to  dictate.  He  had  that  inborn 
dignity,  that  more  than  imperial  authority,  to  which,  when  it  speaks  as  it  spoke  in  him, 
(such  is  the  decree  of  the  Most  High),  kings  and  queens  must  bend  from  their  thrones 
and  give  ear,  and  the  whole  world  give  way. 

The  grandest  discoveries  in  regard  to  the  arrangements  and  laws  of  the  solar 
system — what  were  they  in  the  first  instance  ?  Were  they  conclusions  forced  upon 
men  by  a  long  and  faithful  observation  of  facts,  by  a  laborious  scientific  investigation  .' 
or — rather,  were  they  not  a  species  of  intuitions,  or  guesses,  suddenly  flashing  across 
some  solitary  thinker,  he  knew  not  whence  nor  how,  but  only  that  they  must  be  true, 
and  he  proclaimed  his  convictions  with  such  earnest  and  persevering  authority,  that 
other  men  were  forced  to  hear,  inquire  and  verify  ?  It  was  so  with  Copernicus.  The 
existing  opinions  of  his  day  he  rejected  as  crude  and  ill-ordered.  He  looked  into 
ancient  authors ;  and  from  one  he  learned  that  a  certain  philosopher  of  old  supposed 
the  earth  to  revolve  every  day  round  its  axis,  and  from  another,  that  the  earth  moved 
every  year  round  the  sun.  These  two  suggestions  struck  his  mind  with  great  force,  or 
rather,  to  reverse  the  thought,  and  speak  more  correctly,  his  mind  seized  upon  them 
with  living  power,  and  instantly  the  true  theory  of  our  system  was  unveiled,  and 
observation  toiled  after  him,  and  verified  the  magnificent  conjecture.  So  was  it  also 
with  the  theory  of  gravitation.  Before  experiment  and  inquiry  had  demonstrated  its 
truth,  the  mind  of  the  great  philosopher  had  anticipated  it,  and  he  knew  what  he  was 
going  to  prove.  He  had  an  intuitive  conviction  which  experience  might  corroborate, 
but  could  not  create.  So  once  more,  when  Franklin  sent  up  his  silken  messenger  to 
interrogate  the  thunder-cloud,  why  did  the  wary  philosopher  steal  out  silently  into  the 
fields  with  his  son  only  for  a  companion,  fearing  the  ridicule  of  the  world  ?  The  facts 
which  had  already  awakened  a  suspicion  of  the  identity  of  lightning  and  electricity, 

84 


GENIUS. 


were  <renerally  known  among  the  scientific.  But  in  him  there  was  a  peculiar  force  of 
mind,\-hich  produced  so  strong  a  conviction  of  the  fact,  that  he  was  moved  to  action 
—to  experiment.  He  could  give  no  new  reason  for  what  he  was  doing,  save  this 
simple  strength  of  his  own  convictions.  And  we  can  easily  suppose  him  to  have 
exclaimed  upon  witnessing  the  result,—"  So  I  thought.     I  knew  it  was  so." 

I  have  said  that  we  are  led  to  overlook  this  native  power  of  ihe  raind,  which 
is  to  be  accounted  a  species  of  inspiration,  through  a  too  rigid  application  of  the  Baco- 
nian philosophy.     Perhaps  I  should  correct  myself.     I  should  have  said  too  narrow. 
In  the  pursuit  of  science,  in  our  anxiety  to  scrutinise  every  fact,  even  the  minutest 
that  arrests  the  notice  of  the  senses,  we  forget  this  great  fact  of  our  nature,  upon 
which  I  insist,  and  withhold  from  it  the  consideration  which  is  its  due,  and  thus  the 
whole    process    of  inquiry   is  vitiated.     This   oversight  is  a   violation  of  our  own 
favourite  principle  of  observation.     In  our  distrust  of  mere  speculation  and  theory, 
we  insist  too  peremptorily  upon  certain  scientific  conditions,  and  laugh  to  scorn  every 
suggestion  which  is  not  evolved  by  a  rigorous  application  of  our  established  methods 
of^hiquiry.     We  forget  that  the  conviction  of  an  individual  with  regard  to  any  pro- 
blem in  philosophy,  the  view  he  takes  of  it,  is  one  of  the  facts  of  the  case,  that  may 
well  requite  investigation,  as  in  justice  it  may  demand  it.     It  may  be  the  offspring  of 
ignorance,  or  the  illusion  of  a  visionary  raind.     In  a  majority  of  cases,  speculation  is, 
no  doubt,  utterly  at  fault.     When  it  is  so,  it  is  not  difficult  to  ascertain  it.     A  sound 
conjecture  is  certainly  distinguishable  from  a  superficial  one.     There  is  such  a  thing 
as  guessing  wisely  and  profoundly.     Boscovich,  "  whose  slightest  logical  hints,"  as 
Dugald  Stewart  remarks,  "  are  entitled  to  peculiar  attention,"  observes  that  "  in  some 
instances,  observations  and  experiments  at  once  reveal  to  us  all  that  we  wish  to  know. 
In  other  cases,"  he  adds,  "we  avail  ourselves  of  the  aid  of  hypotheses;  by  which 
word,  however,  is  to  be  understood  not  fictions  altogether  arbitrary,  but  suppositions 
conformable  to  experience  or  to  analogy."     By  means  of  these,  we  are  enabled,  he  says, 
"  to  supply  the  defects  of  our  data,  and  to  conjecture  or  divine  the  path  of  truth." 
Mark  the  word,— divine  the  truth.     So  there  is  divination  as  well  as  observation ;  and 
man  stands  among  the  works  of  Nature,  not  only  as  an   observer,  but,  in   a  certain 
sense,  as  a  diviner,— a  prophet,  a  seer;  he  must  strive  not  only  to  seek  the  truth,  but 
to  imagine  it  even  before  it  is  discovered.     The  original  force  of  the  mind,  therefore, 
its  native  insight  is  put  in  requisition  ;  and  in  the  purest  matters  of  science,  there  is 
work  for  the  imagination.     A  great  service  will  be  rendered  to  the  cause  of  human 
knowledge,  when  this  truth  is  once  fully  admitted.     Hitherto  it  has  hardly  been  recog- 
nised.    Accordingly  it  has  almost  always  happened  that  the  great  discoverer  has  been 
a  martyr,  suffering  from  the  world's  ridicule,  if  not  its  violence.     It  is  not  only  with  the 
ignorant  and  superstitious  that  he  has  been   compelled  to  contend.     The  scientific 
themselves,  have  arrayed  themselves  against  him,  obstructing  the  progress  of  the  very 
cause  to   which  they  profess  to  be  devoted.     The  enemies  of  wisdom  have  been 
those  of  her  own  household.     And  so  must  it  ever  be,  so  long  as  the  intuitions  of 
Genius  are  confounded  with  the  visions  of  a  disordered  imagination. 

85 


THE    DIADEM. 

By  what  tokens  shall  we  distinguish  the  presence  of  pure  Genius  ?  This  is  no 
easy  question  to  answer.  The  world  has  been  greatly  at  fault  in  discriminating  the 
original  force  of  nature,  in  recognising  its  great  men.  How  many  men  of  the  rarest 
power  have  lived  in  toil  and  obscurity,  ridiculed  and  persecuted,  and  not  till  after 
death  have  they  received  due  honour.  How  seldom  have  the  world's  true  kings  been 
crowned  in  their  lifetime !  Other  men  again  of  quite  ordinary  gifts  have  been  sud- 
denly enveloped  in  a  blaze  of  popularity,  announced  to  all  the  world  by  a  multitude  of 
voices,  as  little  less  than  inspired ;  but  in  a  brief  age  or  less,  their  light  has  dwindled 
to  a  flickering  point  discernible  only  by  the  curious.  Truly  it  has  always  proved  diffi- 
cult for  any  one  age,  even  for  the  wisest  of  the  age  to  recognise  its  own  great  men,  or 
great  events,  the  facts  of  the  time  which  are  the  beginnings  of  new  eras.  The  least 
are  magnified,  and  the  greatest  overlooked.  Tacitus,  the  profoundest  historian  of 
Rome,  dreamed  not  of  the  greatness  of  that  religion  which  he  represents  as  a  misera- 
ble Jewish  superstition.  A  striking  case  in  point  is  mentioned  by  Sir  James  Mackin- 
tosh. "  Paris,"  says  this  writer  in  his  history  of  England,  "  was  evacuated  by  the 
English  in  1435.  Few  events,"  he  adds,  "  could  then  have  been  deemed  more 
important.  Had  statesmen  been  as  voluminous  writers  then  as  they  are  now,  their 
correspondence  could  scarcely  have  handled  any  other  matters.  Of  this  event,  thus 
once  momentous,  a  well-educated  man  might  mistake  the  date  to  the  extent  of  ten  or 
twenty  years.  In  the  very  year  of  the  evacuation  of  Paris,  there  was  an  obscure  law- 
suit going  on  in  the  city  of  Strasburg,  concerning  a  copying  machine.  But  the  copy- 
ing machine  was  the  printing  press,  which  has  changed  the  condition  of  mankind." 
So  that,  perhaps,  the  only  sure  test  of  Genius  is  Time. 

Fame,  popularity,  unless  it  be  of  long  continuance,  is  no  longer  a  sign  of  great- 
ness. In  the  primitive  ages  when  the  means  of  intercourse  were  very  limited,  it  is 
fair  to  presume  that  they  who  made  their  names  known  far  and  wide,  notwithstanding 
a  thousand  obstacles,  geographical  and  moral,  really  earned  renown  by  the  native 
force  of  genius.  And  the  savage  of  the  West,  who,  in  these  days  gains  an  ascendancy 
over  his  tribe,  owes  it,  we  may  believe,  to  an  original  strength  of  character.  But 
not  so  is  it  with  us.  The  Art  of  Printing,  as  with  the  wand  of  a  magician,  has 
converted  the  whole  earth  into  a  huge  whispering  gallery,  and  the  feeblest  of  voices 
by  the  cheap  assistance  of  this  potent  instrument  can  make  itself  heard  distinctly  on 
the  other  side  of  the  world.  And  then  there  is  the  incredible  activity  of  the  periodical 
press,  and  the  vast  machinery  of  praise,  or,  as  it  is  vulgarly  called,  puffing,  than  which 
our  mechanic's  exhibitions,  wonderful  as  they  are,  offer  nothing  more  ingenious,  by 
■which  the  thinnest  production  of  human  wit,  a  mere  bag  of  common  air,  may  be  made 
at  a  single  bound  to  shoot  gallantly  up  into  the  empyrean,  and  there  seem  to  take  its 
place  among  the  everlasting  stars.  So  temptingly  close  at  hand  do  these  aids  now  lie  to 
every  man,  that,  whereas  it  was  once  a  distinction,  a  sign  of  intellectual  eminence  to 
have  written  and  published  one's  thoughts,  shortly,  if  it  be  not  already  the  case,  the 
wonder,  the  rare  bird  in  these  lands,  the  prodigy  almost  as  impossible  to  find  as  the 
fossil  remains  of  a  human  bone,  will  be  the  man  who  can  read  books  but  has  never 
■written  one. 

86 


GENIUS. 

Genius,  being  a  natural  power,  is  of  course  distinguished  by  that  all  pervading 
trait  of  nature,  simplicity.     The  man  of  genius  is  instinctively  prompted  to  exercise 
his  gift,  with  the  same  unconsciousness  with  which  he  uses  his  limbs.     He  is  not 
disposed  to  wonder  at  his  own  performances,  but  his  astonishment  is  that  every  body 
else  cannot  do  the  same.     This  is  the  mystery  to  him.     It  is  true,  it  is  not  long  before 
he  discovers  that  he  is  doing  wonderful  things,  working  miracles,  by  the  admiration 
and  applause  which  he  excites.     Then  comes  the  peril  of  his  Genius,  when  the  worm  of 
vanity,  engendered  by  human  praise,  eats  into  the  noble  heart  of  his  strength,  and  the 
power  implanted  in  him  by  a  divine  hand,  and  destined  to  bear  fruit  for  the  healing 
of  the  nations,  is  used  only  to  feed  his  self-display.     Then,  taking  counsel  of  bis  own 
poor  pride,  listening  no  more  to  the  sacred  promptings  of  his  own  great  nature,  and 
to   these   only,  he   forgets  how  to  walk  simply  forward  with  the  inborn  majesty  of 
Genius  on  his  destined,  upward  way.     To  catch  the  public  eye  he  begins  to  mince 
and  ape  and  throw  himself  into  a  thousand  grotesque  attitudes,  and  at  last  the  giant 
reels  with  the  intoxication  of  applause,  and  down  he  goes  into  the  dust,  and  his  crown 
of  glory  is  defaced  and  shattered,  and  the  world  witnesses  the  saddest  sight,  and  suffers 
a  loss  which   makes  the  angels   weep.      Heaven  only  knows  how   many   precious 
promises  of  Genius  have  been  irreparably  hurt  in  the  bud  by  the  poisonous  breath  of 
praise.     How  often  is  the  injury  inflicted  by  the  parental  hand !     A  child  manifests 
some  rare  gift.     He  knows  not  that  it  is  rare.     It  is  no  more  strange  to  him  that  he 
does  one  thing  rathe;-  than  another.     But  he  is  instantly  made  a  wonder  to  others,  and 
so  he  becomes  a  wonder  to  himself,  and  his  genius,  no  longer  animated  by  its  own 
divine  life,  is  made  the  abject  slave  of  his  little  self,  and  when  he  is  grown  up,  the 
wondrous  virtue  has  vanished  from  him  and  he  sinks  into  the  common  herd  of  men. 
Thus  young  men,  when  they  become  conscious  of  intellectual  power,  are  particularly 
in  danger  of  self-conceit,  the  most  dangerous  foe  of  Genius.     It  is  their  besetting  sin. 
They  are  prone  to  account  it  a  sign  of  greatness  to  be  supercilious,  to  look  with  indif- 
ference and  contempt  upon  nil  other  men  and   upon  the   world   itself,  as  if  it  were 
hardly  deserving  the  honor  of  their  company.     This  disposition  of  mind  is  an  indication 
not  of  strength  but  of  weakness.     Genius,  when  it  is  true  to  itself,  is  like  nature,  true, 
just,  humble,  self-forgetting.     It  honors  all  things,  and  man  most  of  all.     If  the  claims 
of  "Walter  Scott,  as  a  man  of  rare  power,  should  be  called  in  question,  as  one  some- 
times is  inclined  to  fear  from  the  fact  of  his  wide  and  instantaneous  popularity,  the 
hearts  of  all  men  would  rise  up  in  his  behalf,  on  accoimt  of  his  simplicity  as  a  man, 
and  his  perfect  good-nature.     He  had  a  warm  large  heart  in  his  bosom,  and  he  com- 
mands not  only  our   admiration,  but  our  love.     So  is  it  always  with  the  truly  great 
man,  artist  or  philosopher.     He  works  his  greatest  wonders  unaffectedly,  just  as  he 
talks  or  breathes.     It  has  been  said  that  a  person   of  truly  winning  manners,  one, 
whose  appearance  and  voice   instantly  prepossess  all  hearts,  never  knows   himself 
what  it  is  that  constitutes  the  charm  of  his  deportment.     If  he  did,  he  would  be  in 
danger  of  spoiling  it  by  affectation,  by  trying  to  make  it  a  little  more  fine  and  charm- 
ing than  nature  has  made  it.     This  is  true  of  Genius  universally.     "  It  knows  not 

87 


THE    DIADEM. 

itself."  It  is  so  in  morals  as  well  as  in  the  case  of  intellect.  True  goodness,  •which 
is  a  gift  of  grace,  an  inspiration,  is  unconscious  of  itself,  and  takes  no  note  of  itself,  but 
grows  ever  more  humble.  Pride  besets  us  so  at  every  step,  that  we  might  well 
make  it  our  daily  prayer,  that  if  we  have  any  good  in  us,  we  may  never  find  it  out,  for 
we  should  instantly  be  tempted  to  ruin  it  by  self-conceit. 

Not,  however,  that  the  man  of  genius  always  remains  ignorant  of  his  intellectual 
superiority.  But,  knowing  it,  he  never  makes  it  an  occasion  of  vain-glory,  but  is  only 
the  more  urgently  moved  to  put  forth  his  power,  to  enlighten  and  elevate  those  who 
prove  their  kindred  to  him  by  recognising  the  force  that  is  in  him.  So  far  from  its 
being  essential  to  the  nobleness  of  his  life  that  he  should  be  ignorant  of  his  gift,  we 
love  to  see  him  upon  occasions,  on  great  emergencies,  assert  his  greatness,  his  authority. 
It  was  not  vanity,  but  the  simple  consciousness  of  power,  an  inexpressible  greatness 
of  mind,  which  rose  above  the  conflict  of  the  elements  that  prompted  the  Roman 
Conqueror  to  remind  the  trembling  seaman  that  the  boat  carried  Cffisar.  Or  again, 
when  Genius,  nature's  true  nobility,  is  brought  into  contact  with  the  distinctions 
of  birth  and  rank,  we  love  to  see  it  insensible  thereto,  though  at  a  little  risk  of 
courtesy.  To  our  republican  taste  especially,  it  is  particularly  grateful  to  read  of 
Mozart  that  when  but  a  little  boy,  being  summoned  to  exhibit  his  musical  gifts  in  a 
royal  presence,  before  he  would  touch  a  finger  to  the  keys,  utterly  heedless  of  the 
imposing  pretensions  of  high-born  ears,  and  undazzled  by  the  pomp  of  a  court,  he 
exclaimed  with  the  simplicity  of  childhood  and  of  Genius,  "  Where  is  Mr.  Wagen- 
seil.''  He  understands  the  thing."  But  habitually,  the  true  man  of  genius  is  simple, 
unconscious.  This  was  eminently  the  case  with  Shakspeare.  In  all  his  works  how 
few  passages  are  there,  which  intimate  that  he  considered  himself  as  having  done 
anything  wonderful.  Santeuil,  who  was  an  adept  in  the  schoolboy  accomplishment 
of  writing  Latin  verses,  assured  Boileau,  that  he  himself  was  always  perfectly  satisfied 
with  his  own  performances.  "You  are  the  only  great  man  that  ever  was  so,"  was 
the  reply  of  the  satirist.  The  truth  is,  the  man  faithful  to  his  own  genius  fixes  his 
eyes  upon  a  standard  far  above  the  admiration  and  rewards  of  the  world.  He  is 
always  endeavoring  to  realise  his  own  pure  ideal ;  and  is  always  much  more 
impressed  with  the  difference  between  what  he  accomplishes  and  what  he  conceives, 
than  with  the  superiority  of  his  works  to  those  of  other  men.  Of  course  he  is 
humble  and  not  proud,  nor  vain.  He  forgets  himself  and  all  that  is  his  in  his  aspira- 
tions after  that  perfection  which  his  Genius,  like  a  guardian  angel,  perpetually  holds 
before  him. 

But  Genius  is  distinguished  not  only  by  simplicity,  but  by  activity.  Nature 
works  always,  and  it  works.  Here,  again,  we  meet  with  another  common  error,  still 
particularly  prevalent  among  the  young,  namely,  that  Genius  dispenses  with  exertion, 
labour.  It  is  true,  when  a  given  task  is  to  be  performed,  or  a  certain  premium,  or 
definite  amount  of  applause  to  be  obtained,  the  man  of  superior  mental  power  will 
compass  the  proposed  end  much  sooner,  and  with  less  effort  than  another,  endowed 
with  less  natural  ability.     He  will  require  less  time  and  fewer  helps,  and  will  work 

88 


GENIUS. 

triumphantly  with  the  rudest  instruments,  as  Rembrandt  is  said  sometimes  to  have 
painted  with  the  handle  of  his  brush.  But  then  this  is  not  the  task  of  true  Genius, 
merely  to  finish  one  work,  or  a  hundred  works,  only  to  secure  a  certain  reward.  It  is 
crippled  and  desecrated  when  it  is  so  limited.  Its  nature  craves  ever-increasing  acti- 
vity. The  more  it  is  exercised,  the  louder  does  it  call  for  labour.  It  is  sent  not  to  feed 
the  vanity  of  its  possessor,  nor  for  the  sake  of  one  poor  man,  but  as  Heaven's  best 
blessing  to  the  whole  world,  to  be  the  minister  and  servant  of  all  human  interests, 
to  aid  the  growth  and  culture  of  our  whole  species.  Its  inspirations  are  generous 
and  beneficent.  It  has  come  upon  earth  "  not  to  receive  a  great  kindness,  but  to  do 
a  great  kindness."  And  accordingly  it  labours,  no  matter  at  what  cost  to  itself, 
unweariedly  to  realise  all  the  good  which  it  conceives.  So  eminently  laborious  have 
the  greatest  men  always  proved,  that  it  might  almost  be  said  that  labour  is  Genius, 
save  that  it  requires  Genius  to  find  that  out,  to  feel  the  immense  worth  of  exertion,  the 
greatness  of  the  end  which  labour  serves.  Newton  declared  that  if  he  had  achieved 
anything  in  science,  he  owed  it  to  patient,  persevering  toil.  But  then  his  faith  in  the 
advantages  of  labour  was  the  surest  sign  of  his  genius,  a  significant  proof  that  he 
foresaw,  dimly  it  may  be,  but  still  foresaw  for  what  he  was  labouring.  He  who  is 
toiling,  heart  and  hand,  day  and  night,  in  the  pursuit  of  truth  and  beauty  and  utility, 
in  the  arts,  in  literature,  and  in  philosophy,  looking  beyond  and  above  both  Fame  and 
Wealth, — he  is  the  man  of  genius;  and  whether  we  witness  the  results  of  his  labour 
or  not,  we  can  set  no  bounds  to  the  power  which  he  is  steadily  and  silently  collecting 
There  have  been  men  so  great  and  rare  that  we  are  apt  to  think  (in  the  familiar  phrase 
of  the  poet)  that  "  the  force  of  nature  can  no  farther  go,"  and  that  we  ne'er  shall  look 
upon  their  like  again.  But  we  would  fain  think  otherwise.  This  world,  so  rich 
through  the  Divine  bounty  in  other  things,  shall  still  be  rich  in  men.  Let  this  be  our 
abiding  hope,  and  it  will  help  to  secure  its  own  fulfilment. 

F. 


SPIRIT-GREETING. 


rSOM     GOETUK. 


II     P.     H.     H  E  D  G  1 


[This  little  poem  embodies  one  of  the  noblest  conceptions  in  all  literature.  l!  was  written  by  Goethe 
in  the  hey-day  of  youth,  while  sailing  down  the  Rhine  in  company  with  Lavaler  and  Basedow.  We  may 
.suppose  the  young  poet,  passing  under  the  brow  of  some  old  Drachenfds  or  Ehrenbreiistein,  suddenly 
pierced  with  the  conlrasl  between  the  gray  and  motionless  ruin  above  and  the  floating  life  beneath.  He 
hears  a  voice  from  the  solemii  past — hoary  eld  and  slow  decay  speaking  to  ihe  "  May  of  youth  and  bloom 
of  luslyhood."] 

He  stood  upon  the  rampart  high, 

The  hero's  awful  shade, 
And  to  the  .skiff  that  floated  by, 

"God  speed  thee!  bark,"  he  said. 

"  Behold  these  sinews  were  so  tough, 

So  firm  this  heart  of  mine, 
These  bones  were  made  of  hero's  stutf, 

My  cup  was  filled  with  wine. 

"  One  half  my  life  in  storm  was  spent. 

One  half  I  dreamed  away. — 
And  thou,  on  mortal  mission  bent, 

On!  on!  and  never  stay." 


COLISEUM, 


B !  t'  H  T  K  B  . 


BT     C.     T.     BRUOCS. 


Thky  passed  over  the  Foriim  by  the  Via  Sacra  to  the  Coliseum,  whose  lofty 
cloven  forehead  looked  down,  pale  under  the  moonlight.  They  stood  before  the  gray 
rock-walls,  which  reared  themselves  on  four  colonnades,  one  above  another ;  and  the 
flames  shot  up  into  the  arches  of  the  Arcades,  gilding  the  green  shrubbery  high  over- 
head ;  and  deep  in  the  earth  had  the  noble  monster  already  buried  his  feet.  They 
stepped  in  and  ascended  the  mountain,  full  of  fragments  of  rock,  from  one  seat  of  the 
spectators  to  another.  Gaspard  did  not  venture  to  the  sixth  or  highest,  where  the  men 
used  to  stand ;  but  Albano  and  the  princess  did.  Then  the  youth  gazed  down  over 
the  cliffs  upon  the  round,  green  crater  of  the  burnt-out  volcano,  which  once  swallowed 
up  at  once  nine  thousand  beasts,  and  which  quenched  itself  with  human  blood: — the 
lurid  glare  of  (he  flames  penetrated  into  the  clefts  and  caverns,  and  among  the  foliage 
of  the  ivy  and  laurel,  and  among  the  great  shadows  of  the  moon,  which,  like  recluses, 
kept  themselves  in  cells ; — towards  the  south,  where  the  streams  of  centuries  and 
barbarians  had  stormed  in,  stood  single  columns  and  bare  arcades.  Whole  temples 
and  three  palaces  had  the  giant  fed  and  lined  with  his  limbs,  and  still,  with  all  his 
wounds,  he  looked  out  livingly  into  the  world. 

"  What  a  people!"  said  Albano.  "  Here  coiled  the  giant  Snake  five  times  about 
Christianity.  Like  a  smile  of  scorn  lies  the  moonlight  down  below  there  on  the 
green  arena,  where  once  stood  the  Colossus  of  the  God  of  the  Sun.  The  star  of  the 
North  glimmers  low  through  the  windows,  and  the  Serpent  and  the  Bear  crouch. 
What  a  world  has  gone  by!" 

The  princess  went  away  to  break  a  laurel-twig,  and  pluck  a  blooming  wall-flower. 
Albano  sank  off  into  musing — the  autumnal  wind  of  the  past  swept  over  the  stubble 
on  this  holy  eminence.  He  saw  the  constellations — Rome's  green  hills — the  glimmer- 
ing city — the  Pyramid  of  Ccstius — but  all  became  Past,  and  on  the  twelve  hills 
appeared,  as  upon  graves,  the  lofty  old  spirits,  and  looked  sternly  into  the  age,  as  if 
Ihey  were  still  its  kings  and  judges. 

He  turned  his  eye  toward  the  Coliseum,  whose  mountain-ridges  of  wall  stood 
high  in  the  moonlight,  with  the  deep  gaps  which  had  been  hewn  in  them  by  the 
■cythe  of  Time.     Sharply  stood  the  rent  and  ragged  arches  of  Nero's  Golden  House 

91 


THE    DIADEM. 

hard  by,  like  murderous  cutlasses.  The  Palatine  Hill  lay  full  of  green  gardens,  and 
on  crumbling  temple-roofs  the  blooming  death-garland  of  ivy  was  gnawing,  and  living 
ranunculas  still  glowed  around  sunken  capitals.  The  fountain  murmured  babblingly 
and  forever,  and  the  stars  gazed  down  with  transitory  rays  upon  the  silent  battle  field, 
over  which  the  winter  of  time  had  passed  without  bringing  after  it  a  spring, — the 
fiery  soul  of  the  world  had  flown  up,  and  the  cold,  crumbling  giant  lay  round  about. 
Torn  asunder  were  the  gigantic  spokes  of  the  main  wheel  which  once  the  very  stream 
of  ages  drove. 


LINES 

•urrrKX  ox  reading  with  nirFiccLTT  some  of  sciiilleu's  eahlt  lote  ioems. 

When  of  thy  loves  and  happy  heavenly  dreams 

Of  early  life,  Oh  bard,  I  strive  to  read, 
Thy  foreign  utterance  a  riddle  seems, 

And  scarcely  can  I  hold  thy  thoughts'  bright  thread. 

When  of  the  maiden's  guilt,  the  mother's  woe. 
And  the  dark  mystery  of  death  and  shame 

Thou  speakest,  then  thy  terrible  numbers  flow 
E'en  as  the  tongue  we  think  in  were  the  same. 

Ah !  wherefore,  but  because  all  joy  and  love 
Speak  but  imagined,  unknown  words  to  me, 

A  spirit  of  wishful  wonder  they  may  move. 

Dreams  of  what  might,  but  yet  shall  never  be. 

But  the  sharp  cry  of  pain,  the  inward  moan 

Of  trust  deceived,  the  horrible  despair 
Of  life  and  love  forever  overthrown — 

These  fearful  strains  need  no  interpreter. 

Oh,  't  is  my  mother  tongue!  and  howsoe'er 

In  foreign  accents  writ  that  I  did  ne'er 
Or  speak  or  hear — this  bitter  agony. 

This  utters  a  familiar  voice  to  me. 


SONG. 


FROM    THE     FRENCH. 


'LE     DEPAHT. 


Our  ship  has  rounded, 
She  leans  to  the  lee, 
And  her  march  is  sounded, 
By  winds  and  sea. 
0,  Ave  Maria !  my  prayers  are  through  you ; 
Adieu,  my  country!  Provence,  adieu! 

Poor  father  watches 

That  mother's  pale, 
As  her  quick  ear  catches 
The  rising  gale. 
0,  Ave  Maria!  my  prayers  are  through  you; 
Adieu,  my  country!  my  sire,  adieu! 

At  day's  first  beaming 

Cries  sister  then  ; 
A  dream  I've  been  dreaming, — 
He'll  come  again. 
0,  Ave  Maria !  my  prayers  are  through  you  ; 
Adieu,  my  country !  sister,  adieu ! 

The  kerchiefs  waving 

Of  my  Annette  ; 
From  the  shore  I'm  leaving 
She  calls  me  yet. 
0,  Ave  Maria!  my  prayers  are  through  you; 
Farewell,  my  country !  Annette,  adieu ! 

Why  so  quick  darted. 

Rough  breeze,  away; — • 
When  my  true-hearted 
Has  more  to  say? 
0,  Ave  Maria!  my  prayers  are  through  you; 
Adieu,  my  country!  all  joy,  adieu!  N.  L.  F. 

94 


THE    FORE-RUNNERS. 

BT     n.     W.     EMEUSOS. 

Long  I  followed  happy  guides, 
I  could  never  reach  their  sides. 
Their  step  is  forth  and,  ere  the  day. 
Breaks  up  their  leaguer  and  away. 
Keen  my  sense,  my  heart  was  young. 
Right  good  will  my  sinews  strung. 
But  no  speed  of  mine  avails 
To  hunt  upon  their  shining  trails. 
On  and  away,  their  hasting  feet 
Make  the  morning  proud  and  sweet. 
Flowers  they  strew,  I  catch  the  scent, 
Or  tone  of  silver  instrument 
Leaves  on  the  wind  melodious  trace, 
Yet  I  could  never  see  their  face. 
On  eastern  hills  I  see  their  smokes 
Mixed  with  mist  by  distant  lochs. 
I  met  many  travellers 
Who  the  road  had  surely  kept, 
They  saw  not  my  fine  revellers. 
These  had  crossed  them  while  they  slept. 
Some  had  heard  their  fair  report, 
In  the  country  or  the  court. 
Fleetest  couriers  alive 
Never  yet  could  once  arrive. 
As  they  went  or  they  returned. 
At  the  house  where  these  sojourned. 
Sometimes  their  strong  speed  they  slacken. 
Though  they  are  not  overtaken : 
In  sleep  their  jubilant  troop  is  near, 
I  tuneful  voices  overhear, 
95 


THE    FORE-RUNNERS. 

It  may  be  in  wood  or  waste, — 
At  unawares  't  is  come  and  passed. 
Their  near  camp  my  spirit  knows 
By  signs  gracious  as  rainbows. 
I  thenceforward  and  long  after, 
Listen  for  their  harp-like  laughter, 
And  carry  in  my  heart  for  days 
Peace  that  hallows  rudest  ways. 


THE    END. 


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